


Trouble

by toyhto



Series: Trouble [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Eames has a habit of getting into trouble. Arthur is his guardian angel.





	1. The Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So I read a poem quote in which there was something about what it's like to touch something mortal. From that, we got here. This is a Guardian Angel -AU that I've been writing for a few weeks now, trying to entertain myself. And, if you realize you feel very uncomfortable about the setting of this story, maybe if you happen to be for example a very passionate atheist or a very passionate Christian, maybe don't read this. Now you have been warned. That being said, I write this with the kindness and best wishes for both humans and angels, whether they exist or not.
> 
> You can say hi to me on the comment box or on my [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

For Arthur, the first day with a new client is always bad. He used to think that would change over time, but now it’s been approximately three and a half thousand years, and the first day is still, may he say, hell. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He’s tried to talk about it with his therapist and his colleagues and even with the boss, but they all keep asking if he has any idea why that is so, and that’s the moment when he shuts up. He doesn’t want to talk about it. The boss should understand. The boss remembers everything, including the sad accident when it was Arthur’s first day at the job and his first human client ever got eaten by a tiger in less than two minutes.  
  
This time, he almost let himself thought that maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. His latest client died a week ago painlessly in her sleep. She was 104 years old, which is quite good for a human. Feeling rather pleased with himself, Arthur took a week off and didn’t think about humans and their many problems almost at all. When he came back to the office this morning, he expected he’d have a terrible day at trying to keep a new-born baby alive. Considering how little babies can do, there’re surprisingly many ways for them to die.  
  
“This is Eames,” the boss told Arthur. They were in a very messy living room. On the couch, there was an adult human male, wearing nothing besides shockingly orange underpants, picking his teeth with scissors.  
  
“He’s not a baby,” Arthur said.  
  
“Yes,” the boss said, “no, he’s not.”  
  
It turned out that whoever had been watching over Eames before Arthur had turned to the dark side, which is how the boss has been calling it since the first Star Wars came out. That’s why Arthur got an adult human instead of a baby _._ However, Arthur wasn’t immediately disappointed. He doesn’t like babies. And the man sitting on the sofa seemed slightly more capable of taking care of himself than a baby, even if he was handling the scissors a bit carelessly.  
  
Now, an hour later, Arthur’s firmly decided to quit. He just hasn’t had the time yet. But as soon as Eames is going to finish getting shot at, Arthur’s going to go straight to the boss and say that he’s had enough. This job is just _impossible._ Surely there’s something in his contract that says that when four armed men come to his client’s home before _midday_ and start shooting, that is a _little too much._  
  
“Oh, shit,” Eames says, climbing out of his window, “shit, shit, shit, shit, please –“  
  
He jumps.  
  
Arthur rushes closer and helps a little so that the idiot doesn’t break his both legs.  
  
“Well,” Eames says, when Arthur backs away, “that went smoothly.” And then the shooting starts again. Eames starts running away from the house, one of the attackers stays in the bedroom window and keeps shooting and the two others go to the front door and start chasing after Eames. Arthur tries to stop the bullets, but he’s last client, Elise, never was in a gun fight and therefore this is a bit new to him, and when he misses a few bullets, he’s sure Eames is going to die. At Arthur’s first day.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eames shouts and keeps on running.  
  
Well, that’s a relief. Arthur manages to tackle one of the attackers, not very smoothly but hopefully the boss isn’t paying attention, and then he disarms the other, trying to make it seem like it was just a rush of wind that knocked the gun from the man’s hand. Then he realizes he can’t see Eames anymore. Well, it’s a good thing that they have a very functionable tracking system. Arthur always knows where the client is and what he’s doing, especially when he doesn’t want to know.  
  
The bright side is that Eames is already 34 years old. In about 60 years, he should be dead, and Arthur can take a week off. That’s nice.  
  
He finds Eames hiding behind a trash can in an alley not very far away. Eames’ hair is a mess and he’s breathing hard and his clothes are terrible but otherwise he seems to be fine. Also, he’s talking on the phone.  
  
“Cobb, I just want you to know, if it’s got anything to do with you that I almost got killed a second ago, I’m going to goddamn murder you.”  
  
Well, that’s worrying. People aren’t, strictly speaking, allowed to murder each other.  
  
“Ah,” Eames says, somehow managing to sound angry and amused at the same time, “ _ah,_ you’ve got a _job_ for me and you haven’t even asked me yet and I’m getting shot at _already._ Cobb, you’re a mess. You should get yourself a better point man.”  
  
Eames seems oddly calm for a human who was just shot at, which makes Arthur a little uncomfortable. It’s almost like that’s something that happens to Eames every other day, which can’t be the case, because trying to watch over a client like that… the stress would kill Arthur. Metaphorically speaking.  
  
“Cobb, you know I don’t like risks,” Eames says now and then laughs, “well, not that kind of risks… well, I _do,_ I _love_ risks, but I’m getting old and I haven’t been running lately, it’s a bit too much to get shot the first thing in the morning, you can’t imagine how many miles I just ran…”  
  
Five hundred yards and thirty two feet, Arthur thinks. But otherwise, he agrees with Eames. Getting shot the first thing in the morning _is_ too much.  
  
“How much money?” Eames asks, blinking. “Really? And when do you need me? Not that I’m interested, but… this evening? I’ll be there.”  
  
Don’t, Arthur thinks. He’s not supposed to have opinions. Everything he’s supposed to do is to keep Eames as safe as he can, no matter how much Eames tries for the opposite. And he’s not supposed to be oddly angry at Eames all the way back to the house that’s Eames home and that’s now thankfully empty of the attackers. It’s just that he has a bad feeling about this so-called _Cobb_ Eames was talking to on the phone. He considers stopping Eames from leaving in some tactful way. He could, for example, miraculously glue Eames’ feet onto the floor. Then he thinks about what the boss would say if Arthur did a thing like that at the first day with a new client.  
  
Arthur watches Eames take a shower, pack his bags and take a taxi to the airport.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Arthur hates planes.  
  
Well, he hates many things but planes are certainly amongst them. It’s just that there’re too many humans in a tiny space. Luckily he only needs to worry about Eames, in case Eames plans to choke on the sandwich or something. Just when he’s beginning to feel slightly less uncomfortable, he realizes that Sam, whom he dated some time ago, is at the back with a client. Arthur chats with him for a few minutes, but it turns out it takes more than seven hundred years after the break-up to have a normal conversation with an ex. Also, Sam’s client seems infuriatingly healthy and well-behaved, and Arthur can’t stop thinking that the moment he stops stressing about Eames, the human is going to find a way to get himself accidentally killed.  
  
“It was nice to see you,” Sam says, when Arthur finally says that this is his first day at the job and he can’t think about anything else than Eames now. “Maybe we should catch up.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Arthur says and thinks, _not in a thousand years._ After two thousand, perhaps.  
  
The plane lands in Sydney. There’re cities Arthur hates more. The weather’s not terrible, either. Eames takes a taxi and Arthur sits on the back seat next to him. Elise lived almost her whole life in a small village in Austria, and it seems that construction engineering has developed a bit in hundred years. It’s not like Arthur didn’t know that already, of course not. Elise watched a lot of television. But it’s not the same thing to see something through the screen than to see it through the window of the taxi.  
  
Arthur’s maybe a little too occupied at wondering about the architecture and city planning, because he doesn’t realize Eames is leaning towards him until Eames is almost in his lap, apparently trying to stare through the window at Arthur’s side. Arthur flinches, mentally. And then the funny thing happens: Eames flinches too.  
  
That’s odd.  
  
Of course, humans can’t _touch_ him. Humans are very well able to walk straight through him and know nothing. But sometimes it happens that a human can sense there’s someone with them, someone they can’t see.  
  
“Hmm,” Eames says and sits back at his own side. Arthur stays very still. It’s not uncommon that someone loses his temper in a job and says something to a human. Five hundred years ago, that was a problem, because humans always took them a little too seriously. Now the most humans in the most countries usually just think that they’re ‘imagining things’ as they call it, or ‘hearing voices’, which is kind of unfortunate for them but good in case whatever has been said isn’t something a human should take as a divine message, for example, _you should never wear that shirt again_. Surely humans are much more comfortable with concerns regarding their mental health than having their looks offended by an immortal creature they’ve stopped believing in.  
  
But Arthur’s never made a mistake like that. He’s never talked to his client. He doesn’t get attached to people. He just doesn’t want them to die early. That’s all. That’s his job.  
  
And to be honest, he doesn’t remember that any human would’ve ever touched him and _flinched._ Maybe Eames was just cold. Or hungry. Or something else. Humans are so unpractical with all their flaws. He tries to keep a bit distance, though, just in case. It’s easier when Eames finally gets out of the taxi, only then Eames goes towards a building that looks like it’s abandoned and in a risk of crumbling down. It’s very tricky to save a human from a collapsing building, so Arthur reminds himself that there’s a good statistical chance that the building won’t collapse when Eames is in. His therapist often says that he always expects the worst. That’s certainly true and probably the reason why only one of Arthur’s clients has been eaten by a tiger.  
  
At the front door, Eames takes his phone, dials a number, lets the phone ring and then takes a gun out of nowhere.  
  
_What_ , Arthur thinks. If Eames is going to get into _another_ gunfight tonight, Arthur’s going to tie him into his bed. He couldn’t cause himself too much harm then, could he? It’d be logical. Maybe Arthur could even explain that to the boss afterwards.  
  
The door opens. Eames points the gun at the human opening the door.  
  
“Hi, Eames,” says a thirty-something-year-old male, who’s doesn’t look the least bothered about the gun. Maybe he doesn’t know what they’re for. It’s only been a few hundred years since they were invented, after all. “I’m glad you could come.”  
  
“Everything alright?” Eames says, lowering the gun.  
  
“Yes,” the other male says.  
  
“Cobb, you’re a liar,” Eames says, “everything’s never alright when you’re around. But I suppose you haven’t been shot at recently.”  
  
“No,” Cobb says, “and besides, it had nothing to do with this job. Just put that away and come meet the architect.”  
  
Surprisingly, Eames does what he’s been told. Arthur follows the humans into the building and to the staircase that’s dusty and creaking, but Eames doesn’t even seem to notice. Elise hated dust. At the end of the staircase, there’s a room with big windows that have a view over the city, a few desks, a lot of empty coffee cups and a twenty-something-year-old human, who looks like she might be averagely sane.  
  
“This is Ariadne,” Cobb says.  
  
“Hi,” Ariadne says.  
  
“Hi,” Eames says, and then the humans start talking about their dreams. Arthur comes a little closer, and not only because he’s afraid Eames might fall through one of the windows and die, and wouldn’t just be an embarrassing way to lose a client? Coincidentally, Arthur likes dreams. Naturally, he doesn’t _have_ them. He doesn’t _sleep._ But unlike other weird things humans are capable of and Arthur isn’t, for example, dying, dreaming is fascinating. It’s almost impossible to believe that a human consciousness is able to do something like that. Arthur’s read about the science of it, of course, and the boss explained it to him once when he couldn’t help but ask. But it’s still fascinating.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, Eames isn’t the worst possible client Arthur could have. Besides not being a baby, Eames seems to hang around with humans who like to discuss their dreams.  
  
In half an hour, Arthur starts to think that maybe the dreams these humans are having are statistically more fascinating than human dreams in average. At least there is a lot of violence involved or so it seems, and the humans talk about their dreams as if there’s _a purpose_ in dreaming, something to be achieved. Arthur likes things to have a purpose. He also likes to achieve things. He thinks about the dreams the humans are talking about and, for a few seconds, almost forgets to worry about Eames’ upcoming death. Then Eames says something about the coffee machine, walks straight through Arthur, and stops.  
  
“What?” Cobb asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
“Nothing,” Eames says, but his voice hints that it’s definitely not nothing. He’s still standing so close to Arthur that their arms would brush, if Arthur had arms, or a body made of matter.  
  
“Are you sure?” Cobb asks. “Maybe you’ve got a flu coming. I heard it’s been raining in England.”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Eames says, not sounding fine. Arthur takes a step back and then almost jumps when Eames _leans_ towards him, looking around. “I just thought I felt something.”  
  
“It’s probably just the warmth,” Cobb says, “we have that in California. And sometimes the sun shines through the window glass. It feels nice.”  
  
“I’ve been here before,” Eames says and then shrugs. “Well, anyway, who’s going to make me coffee?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
Eames stays in the dangerous, untidy building almost until the midnight, even though he is clearly in need of sleep. Arthur hovers over Eames’ desk and keeps reminding himself that sleep derivation isn’t _immediately_ dangerous and that he’s not allowed to tell Eames that Eames’ bedtime has already passed. He thinks about shutting down Eames’ computer, which might be a subtle hint that Eames should go to sleep, but it turns out Eames’ computer is a bit different than the one Elise bought in 1992 and had the rest of her life. Arthur just doesn’t have the patience to read the manual right now.  
  
At midnight, Arthur follows Eames to the hotel. Eames drinks a little whiskey and then sits down in a chair next to the window, holding an empty glass and apparently staring at the sky colored with city lights. Arthur watches as Eames opens the window and smokes a cigarette, which Arthur could probably put out and blame it on the wind, and then he could snitch the lighter and hide it somewhere Eames couldn’t find it until he’d be dead and it’d be too late for him to catch lung cancer anyway. But it’s probably for the best that Arthur keeps his distance for now. He doesn’t want Eames to flinch again, or lean towards him. That was weird. That kind of things happen to his colleagues but never to him.  
  
So, he just stays there, watching. Eames doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the sitting very much. Instead, he looks tired and more than a little sad, even though Arthur has always had difficulties recognizing sadness in humans. Once he had been wondering for days why Elise was looking like that, when she finally burst in tears and started talking to her own reflection on the mirror, _I’m so sad, I’m so sad, why am I so sad all the time?_ That was terrifying. Arthur didn’t have a clue what to do. He hopes Eames isn’t going to start crying, not at Arthur’s _first day_ at least. Well, this has been a long first day.  
  
Finally, _finally_ , Eames gets up from the chair and goes to the bathroom. Arthur follows him to check that he doesn’t get himself injured with whatever dangers there are in a hotel bathroom. Eames just takes off his clothes, pushes them in a pile on the floor and pushes the pile towards the door with his foot, and then takes a quick shower. He looks very different than Elise did, but then again, all humans do. It would be absurd to make aesthetic evaluations about humans, since they’re all unique in their design. But it’s been a long day and Arthur’s thoughts are drifting off a little, so _if_ he made aesthetic evaluations about humans, perhaps he might end up thinking that Eames looks kind of nice. He looks firm, like someone with a finger could poke at him with the said finger and the finger would bounce right back. That’s fascinating. And it’s surprisingly easy to see the shape of Eames’ muscles through his skin. It’s been a long time since Arthur’s studied human anatomy, so there’s a lot he’s forgotten, but he could still name most of Eames’ muscles. Maybe watching Eames will refresh his memory. That would be great, academically speaking.  
  
“Shit,” Eames says so suddenly that Arthur jumps – mentally, of course. At first Arthur thinks for no reason at all that Eames is talking to him. But Eames is leaning closer to the mirror, his hands gripping the edge of the sink, his eyes staring at his own reflection as if he’s forgotten what he looks like. Maybe that’s not actually so improbable. Humans have terrible memory. Sometimes they can’t even remember things that happened, say, sixty years ago. Maybe it’s for the best that they only live for such a short time.  
  
“Shit,” Eames says again, and Arthur gets a little worried. Why is Eames talking about that? “Shit, shit, shit. You bloody idiot.” Well, at least there’s some variation. That’s a relief. “You weren’t supposed to take a job with Cobb. Never again, you said, after the last time. Can’t you fucking remember how that went? Can’t you? You almost ended up in fucking _limbo,_ you git.”  
  
Arthur makes a note to check _The Contemporary Human Vocabulary in Three Hundred and Seventy Two Languages_ for the modern references for the word _fucking_ , since Eames seems to use that a lot. Elise never did. Now, however, Arthur’s a bit busy being worried about Eames’ blood pressure.  
  
“In limbo,” Eames says to himself, frowning and leaning so close to the mirror his nose almost touches it, which can’t be the point, can it? “In fucking _limbo._ Is that what you want? Really? _Really?_ And this time, he almost got you shot before you even heard about the fucking job –“  
  
Eames takes a deep breath. Well, that’s good. Breathing is essential for humans. Arthur comes a little closer to him, even though it’s probably a bad idea.  
  
“And don’t you dare to say that he’s your friend,” Eames says, raising his hands and tugging at his hair. From Arthur’s point of view, the tugging doesn’t do the hair any good. “He’s not your _friend,_ you idiot. The only person he cared about was Mal and she’s gone now. He’s not your friend. You’ve got to get real friends, Eames, you’ve just got to, why can’t you? You’re good with people. You’re splendid. Remember the time you went to a casino in Istanbul and you didn’t even speak the bloody language and they all loved you anyway? _Remember?_ You can do it. You don’t have to take every goddamn stupid job Cobbs throws at you. You can have someone else. You can… oh, what the fuck. What the actual fuck.”  
  
And then he falls silent.  
  
Arthur stays frozen in his place for a while. Eames is breathing in and out quite loudly, as humans often do. His heartbeat is too rapid and he’s sweating. It’s one o’clock in the evening in Sydney and Eames should’ve been asleep for _hours_ now, and Arthur doesn’t know what to _do_ , he thought he’d have a newborn baby to watch over today. He could’ve dealt with a baby. And there’re rarely any wild tigers around these days. But adult male who’s talking about needing friends, well, how could Arthur know what to do about that? If he was a human, he could probably pat Eames on the shoulder. Apparently, that’s what humans do when they don’t know what to do to each other.  
  
But Arthur’s not a human.  
  
He moves a little closer anyway. If he was a human, he’d stand so close to Eames that they’d be almost touching. Maybe he’d tell Eames that _they_ are friends, so Eames wouldn’t be so sad about having none but Cobb, who really doesn’t seem to be a very adequate friend. If Arthur was a human, he could tell Eames that Eames deserves a friend who doesn’t get him shot the first thing in the morning.  
  
“What’re you going to do?” Eames says in a quiet voice, looking at the floor now. He doesn’t seem to be considering going to sleep. “What the hell are you going to do this time?”  
  
Arthur moves a little closer, and then a little closer, and then a little closer. At least Eames doesn’t flinch, not even when Arthur slides to the same place he’s in. If Arthur was a human, he could find out what Eames’ skin feels like to the touch. That’d be fascinating. But because he’s a guardian angel instead, he can just hover there at the same spot on the bathroom floor that Eames is standing on. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that this isn’t going to make the slightest difference for Eames, not for better or worse.  
  
Eames takes a deep breath and then says, “oh.”  
  
Eames’ skin would probably feel warm. Humans are warm. Arthur never saw a point in that, but maybe he was wrong. It would be fascinating to touch something warm and mortal _._  
  
“Okay,” Eames says and presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “Okay. It’s going to be fine. You aren’t going to get shot. You aren’t going to get stuck in limbo. You’re going to fucking get out of this alive.” Then he moves away from Arthur, walks through the door and to the bed and lies down. Arthur stays for a second or thirteen. It wasn’t his presence that calmed Eames down, of course not. But it didn’t make things worse, either.  
  
When Eames sleeps, Arthur gets the dictionary. _Fucking_ seems like a complex concept. He’s going to have to think about that later, though, because now he’s busy watching as Eames’ eyelids flutter in his sleep. _Fascinating._ Maybe Eames is having a dream.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Eames wakes up a little before eight in the morning. For a second, he looks surprised, staring through Arthur and blinking. Then he says _oh, goddamn_ in a hoarse voice, gets out of the bed, and goes to the bathroom. Arthur follows. If something happened to Eames in the shower and Arthur wasn’t there to help him, Arthur would feel disappointed for not being able to perform adequately competently at his job. That would be unpleasant. And Eames doesn’t seem to mind Arthur lingering in the corner as he showers – well, obviously Eames doesn’t _know_ Arthur is here. Eames is probably one of those people who don’t even believe in angels. Arthur would very much like to ask him who he thinks has been keeping him from dying this far, if not an angel.  
  
When Eames has showered, he brushes his teeth and puts on a shirt that clearly hasn’t been ironed. Arthur thinks about doing that for him, but then again, it’s not really his job. It’s just he’s always liked clothes, what an odd concept, so inconvenient and still so fascinating. It took him ages to realize that humans don’t want their clothes to be practical, they want them to look nice. Then it took him ages to realize what humans thought looked nice, which was only because humans kept changing their mind about that all the time. They call it _fashion._ It’s crazy. Clothes should appear aesthetically pleasing for at least two hundred years or something like that. But then again, the most of what humans do is crazy.  
  
“You poor bastard,” Eames says at the mirror, after he’s put on trousers which don’t go well with the shirt, and after Arthur’s given up about fixing the wrinkles on the shirt. Eames looks tired but otherwise healthy. “Just go there and do this shit and get the fuck off. You can do this.” Then Eames suddenly grins, and because Arthur’s right behind Eames’ back, looking over his shoulder, he can see Eames’ smile perfectly well on the mirror. Perhaps Eames is an exceptionally good smiler.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “fucking right. That’s the way. Now go get a goddamn taxi.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Eames,” Cobb says, walking through Arthur and stopping by Eames’ desk, “do you need something?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Eames says and barely glances at Cobb. “Thank you.”  
  
Cobb takes a deep breath and leans the flat of his palms onto the edge of Eames’ desk. “It’s just that, I don’t know, you seem different. So, I was wondering…”  
  
Eames takes an equally deep breath and turns to Arthur – no, to Cobb, because Eames can’t see Arthur. “You were wondering what exactly?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Cobb says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Is there something that’s bothering you?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Eames says. “Is there something that’s bothering _you?_ ”  
  
“Of course not,” Cobb says, slowly, “it’s just that sometimes you smile a lot.”  
  
Eames blinks and then smiles at Cobb. Arthur frowns. Mentally, of course. Sometimes he thinks that should he have a forehead, he’d frown all the time.  
  
There’s something wrong with the way Eames smiles. He doesn’t look _happy._  
  
“See?” Cobb says. “Like that.”  
  
“Cobb,” Eames says, still smiling, and Arthur comes closer to look because Eames _still_ doesn’t look happy and Cobb does, and Arthur never used to be able to tell the difference, “dear Cobb, I don’t understand why I take every job you give me. Maybe I’m a little self-destructive.”  
  
_Oh, no,_ Arthur thinks.  
  
“Aren’t we all?” Cobb says. “But I don’t understand what you mean.”  
  
“Last time, you almost got us caught in limbo,” Eames says.  
  
“What’s a limbo?” says Ariadne, who’s sitting at her desk, drawing something that looks like a city. It’s very beautiful. Arthur stared at it for at least a minute earlier, when Eames seemed to be sitting safely in his chair and there was no apparent risk of death.  
  
“ _What’s a limbo?”_ Eames says.  
  
_What’s a limbo,_ Arthur thinks.  
  
“She’s new,” Cobb says and clears his throat. “but very good. As you already noticed.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, looking more tired now, “but maybe you should tell her about the risks.”  
  
“There’re no risks,” Cobb says, “not this time. We’re going to do only one lever, as you know. And I’ve apologized about the last time. So, if there isn’t anything you want to say –“  
  
“No,” Eames says, frowning, “no, nothing at all. Just let me do my job.”  
  
“Gladly,” Cobb says, walks through Arthur again and goes to his desk. Arthur stares at Eames’ hands as Eames resettles the papers on his desk in a way that seems to lack any logic.  
  
“Nothing at all,” Eames says so quietly no one but Arthur probably hears.  
  
  
**  
  
  
That night, Eames doesn’t go back to the hotel. Instead, Eames gets out of the taxi in a street that’s full of people shouting and laughing at each other loudly and pushes through the crowd using his elbows and shoulders in a way that doesn’t seem very subtle. Arthur follows him. The building where they go has dark lighting and odd music, and it smells of ethanol and human sweat. People walk and dance and crawl through Arthur and he almost hopes he’d have a body so that he could push at them with his elbows, like Eames did outside.  
  
Eames sits by the counter and asks for a drink. Arthur manages to knock the first one out of Eames’ hands, because they aren’t _healthy_ and Arthur takes his job very seriously. But afterwards Eames looks at his now empty hands so thoughtfully it makes Arthur nervous for no reason at all, and then he just hovers there when Eames asks for another drink. This time, he watches when Eames empties the glass and puts it aside. Then Eames asks for yet another. Arthur would grit his teeth if he had those.  
  
“Fine,” Eames says to his hands after four drinks.  
  
Half an hour later, things have escalated. Eames is in the middle of a grow of humans, swaying from side to side, hands pushed under the shirt of a thirty-something-year-old man. The shirt is fine but Arthur doesn’t like the man, not at all, even though he’s not supposed to have an opinion, not as long as whatever Eames is doing isn’t a risk for his health. But there’s something very irritating about the way Eames goes closer and closer to the man until their bodies are leaning against each other. It looks pointless, but then again, how would Arthur know? He doesn’t have a body, has he? He tries to get closer, only so that he can keep better eye on Eames, and ends up placing himself where the irritating man with a fine shirt is. Eames has his hands on the man’s neck now, and then he leans forwards, leans to _Arthur_ , only it’s not Arthur, it’s the man in the shirt, and now they have their mouths pushed against each other. _Kissing._ They’re kissing. Arthur knows the term. He’s read about it.  
  
“Fuck,” Eames says and kisses the man again. Arthur backs away a little and watches. There’s no reason why kissing another human might be dangerous for Eames, none at all, not even when Arthur checks the condition of Eames’ heart for the fifteenth time during the first five minutes of the kissing event. It’s absolutely illogical that Arthur wants Eames to stop kissing the other human. And that’s the first rule of the job: never let your personal feelings affect your judgement, and if you do, never grow fond of a human, and if you _do,_ at least make sure to never fall in love with a human. They’ll be dead in a hundred years anyway.  
  
Eames grabs the other human by his wrist and drags him out of the building and to the street and to a taxi, and Arthur follows them and reminds himself that he’s never had a problem like that. He’s never grown fond of a human. He doesn’t like humans, which isn’t surprising, because who does? Besides the boss, of course, but the boss has always had a soft spot for humans. Apparently the boss created humans in his image. But everybody else agrees that humans have messed up really badly on Earth and are doing very little to try to fix that.  
  
Besides, humans are often very boring. The most of their time goes to sleeping, eating, and in some cases, populating. Humans don’t do anything _sensible_ , and Arthur tries to stop them from dying only because it’s his job. He doesn’t _like_ them. He could never, in any universe – not that he’s visited many, because it’s expensive – and not in a hundred million years, imagine falling in love with one of them. The idea is ridiculous. Who could love a human? Who, indeed?  
  
Who could, for example, fall in love with Eames, who now, twenty minutes later, is saying very nice things in a very hoarse voice to the man, who’s already sitting on the edge of Eames’ bed, without a shirt? Not Arthur. Surely not Arthur.  
  
Eames goes to the man, pushes him on the shoulders until he’s lying on the bed on his back, and crawls to sit on his waist. Arthur goes to the kitchen and pushes a half-empty bottle of whiskey off the counter. The sound of glass shattering against the floor is surprisingly loud. When he looks at Eames again, Eames is holding a gun pointed at his face.  
  
“What the hell?” says the human in Eames’ bed.  
  
Arthur stays very still. He’s never been pointed at with a gun. It feels almost like Eames could see him.  
  
“Stay there,” Eames says to the other human, gets out of the bed and walks to the kitchen counter, still holding his gun, looking around as if he’s looking for someone. Well, he’s looking for Arthur, isn’t he? It’s just that Arthur’s _right here._  
  
“Maybe I should –,“ begins the man on the bed.  
  
“Shut up,” Eames says and steps on the broken glass. There he stops. He pushes his hand through Arthur and sets his palm on the counter. “Odd.”  
  
“Maybe I should leave.”  
  
“No,” Eames says, sliding his palm on the edge of the counter, back and forth. Arthur can feel the warmth of his breath. He smells of ethanol and excitement. And then he pulls his hand back, stops touching Arthur, and sighs. “Maybe. Yeah. You should go.”  
  
“Okay,” the man says. He sounds disappointed.  
  
“Sorry,” Eames says. He sounds like he doesn’t mean it. It would be absurd for Arthur to be glad about that.  
  
“Yeah,” the other human says, gets out of the bed, puts his shirt back on and then goes to the door.  
  
In a minute, Eames and Arthur are alone. Eames goes to the bed, puts the gun down on the mattress and sits down next to it. The mattress creaks. Eames leans his elbows against his knees and leans forward, covering his face with his hands. He doesn’t seem relieved that the other human is gone. Arthur checks his vitals, but there’s nothing wrong with him, and Arthur _knows_ he’s not supposed to worry about whether Eames is _happy_. Not too much, at least. Humans are naturally miserable as a species. Arthur _knows_ that. Arthur’s not an _idiot._  
  
“Goddamn idiot,” Eames says to his hands.  
  
There’s a tiny television in the corner. Arthur switches it on and skips through the channels, until he finds something he thinks Elise would’ve liked. When he glances at Eames again, Eames is staring at the television, looking only slightly confused, not as confused as Elise did once when she found Arthur in the living room in the middle of the night, watching _Licence to Kill._ Personally, Arthur thinks James Bond has an exceptionally good taste in clothes.  
  
Eames takes off his shoes, sits back on the bed and watches the show Arthur picked. Arthur stays close to him. The show is quite bad, but Eames laughs anyway.


	2. The Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur has a very difficult day on his job.

Eames wakes up before eight. Arthur’s already hovering at the edge of the bed. Apparently, something’s supposed to happen today, something Cobb, Ariadne and Eames have been a little nervous about, and it’s only sensible that Arthur’s concerned about Eames’ wellbeing. When Eames finally gets out of the bed, Arthur follows him to the bathroom and lingers in the doorway as Eames washes his face. He looks tired.  
  
“You look tired,” Eames says to the mirror, “you idiot, you should sleep more.”  
  
Arthur agrees. After the incident at their second night in Sydney, Eames hasn’t brought another human to the hotel room. Usually, Eames drinks some sort of alcohol beverage, sits on the edge of the bed and watches television. Sometimes, Arthur changes the channel when Eames is in the bathroom, but Eames never complains. Around three in the morning, Eames goes to the bed, lies on his back and mutters to himself for half an hour until he falls asleep.  
  
“But that’s not going to happen,” Eames says now, leaning closer to the window, “you idiot, that’s not going to fucking happen, is it? At least not until you finish this goddamn job. So, go there and finish it.”  
  
_Yes_ , Arthur thinks. And then they can go back to London. The crime rate there isn’t optional, but Eames’ apartment seemed nice and peaceful, except for the men who tried to shoot Eames, of course.  
  
“And then you’re going to fucking disappear,” Eames says, pointing his finger at the reflection in the mirror, “disappear from Cobb and everyone, alright? Maybe back to Mombasa.”  
  
_No,_ Arthur thinks.  
  
“And gamble all the fucking money you’re going to get out of this job.”  
  
_Absolutely not_ , Arthur thinks.  
  
“And then you’re going to get into a fight and maybe break your nose.”  
  
Arthur comes a little closer. There’s no way he can stop Eames from talking but he could, well, he could maybe walk through Eames. Eames usually flinches and stops whatever he’s been doing, when that happens. It’s a bit odd and statistically improbable, but Arthur’s quickly getting used to it.  
  
“And find someone to fuck,” Eames says, “the other night, a week ago, that was just pathetic, wasn’t it? You bloody idiot. You had someone _right there._ And then you just watched goddamn television for the whole evening. When you’re done with this, you’re going to go to a club and pick someone, just anyone, and then make them bloody fuck you on the -  
  
Arthur pushes the bottle of soap onto the floor. It’s not as loud as the bottle of whiskey was, a week ago. But it’s still more loud than Eames’ cup of coffee was, yesterday. Eames blinks and stares at the pieces of porcelain on the tile floor, then raises his gaze and looks through Arthur, back and forth.  
  
“Well, maybe not fucking, then,” Eames says, pushes his underpants onto the floor and steps into the shower cubicle. Arthur stays behind. Eames hums while he’s showering, and Arthur wants to ask him about the song, because it’s the same song Eames is humming _all the time._ But of course he can’t. He stares at the broken porcelain on the floor and then goes to the other room, when Eames’ humming turns into groans and sighs.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The day becomes very bad very suddenly. First, Cobb and Eames kidnap a human male whose guardian angel gets so angry at Arthur that for a few seconds, they both lose track of their clients. Then the other angel stops talking to Arthur altogether, which is an improvement, only at that point the kidnapped male is already unconscious in the backseat of the van Ariadne is driving, and Cobb is pushing a needle through Eames’ skin. Arthur doesn’t even have time to check where Cobb got the needle, because Eames’ eyelids are already fluttering.  
  
“See you on the other side,” Eames says and closes his eyes. Arthur tuns to Cobb, but Cobb’s lying on the floor of the van now, another needle in his arm, and he closes his eyes, too.  
  
Arthur checks five times that Eames isn’t dead. Instead of being dead, Eames is mildly sedated and unconscious, but there’s no logical reason to think he won’t recover. There’s no reason why Arthur should be worried, only it seems that he can’t stop staring at Eames’ face. Ariadne keeps driving the van, outside it’s raining, the other angel is sulking, and Eames is just lying there, almost like Elise in the morning when she died.  
  
It takes half an hour, which is almost more than Arthur can bear. By the time Eames stirs and pries open one eye, Arthur has already told himself that he’s going to get an appointment with his therapist as soon as he can, and then he’s going to have to start looking for a new job, because this is too much. He can’t deal with the stress. He doesn’t want to keep humans alive any longer, it’s just impossible.  
  
“Eames?” Ariadne calls from the front seat. “How was it?”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, blinking and looking at Arthur. Well, Arthur _knows_ Eames is looking at the ceiling instead. “Everything’s alright. Mal shot me at the leg, though.”  
  
Arthur grabs Eames’ leg. Mentally, of course. The leg is fine.  
  
“Mal?” Ariadne asks.  
  
“Ah,” Eames says, and then, when Cobbs stirs awake, “maybe I’ll tell you next time.”  
  
“Tell her what?” Cobb says.  
  
“Nothing,” Eames says, “nothing at all about who shot me at the leg.”  
  
“Eames,” Cobb says.  
  
“Cobb,” Eames says, “can we please get this thing done so that I can get paid and fuck off?”  
  
Arthur agrees. They definitely should get this thing done, so that he and Eames can, as Eames would say, fuck off. To London, if Arthur has any say in it. Naturally, he doesn’t.  
  
“Fine,” Cobb says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The shooting starts before they can get back to the hotel. They’ve dropped the kidnapped man and his angel to the office where they kidnapped the man at the first place. It was easy for Cobb and Eames to carry the still unconscious human through the backdoor and empty staircase to his office, but not so easy for Arthur to keep explaining to the upset angel that Eames does whatever he wants and Arthur can’t make him not kidnap other humans, no matter how much he wants to. Probably the angel is new at this job.  
  
It’s when they’re back in the van and stop in the streetlight, when a bullet comes through the wall.  
  
“What was that?” Ariadne yells, driving like crazy.  
  
“Nothing,” Cobb says.  
  
“Someone’s bloody shooting us,” Eames says, pulling his gun. “I fucking knew this.”  
  
“You _knew_ this? _”_ Ariadne says.  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “this always happens when I work with Cobb.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“No, it doesn’t,” Cobb says, “the last time you barely got shot at all, you just –“  
  
And then everything seems to happen at once. The van hits something and falls onto its side, and a bullet comes through a wall and sinks into Eames’ shoulder. Eames shouts and it’s the worst sound Arthur’s heard in five hundred years. Outside the van, the shooters have stopped their car and are shooting at the van. They’re clearly trying to kill Eames, which is the only thing in Arthur’s mind when he tackles them to the ground and kicks the guns out of their hands, breaking a few wrists in the process. Strictly speaking, it’s not a part of Arthur’s job to break humans’ wrists but then again, they’re so fragile.  
  
When Arthur gets back to the van, Eames is barely conscious. There’s blood all over his terrible shirt and he’s breathing in short, ragged breaths, and Arthur’s not going to let him die. No. Definitely not. And that’s the moment when the van catches fire.  
  
What an awful day.  
  
Ariadne’s already out, shouting for help. Cobb opens the back door and crawls out, and Eames’ eyelids flutter and he stares at the ceiling and just lays there like an injured human who’s certain he’ll die.  
  
Arthur puts on a human form, takes Eames in his arms and carries him out of the burning van.  
  
It’s nice. It shouldn’t be. There’re people screaming, there’s smoke and Cobb is asking him who the hell he is, only Cobb also has a bad-looking wound on his head and can’t keep his eyes open. But Eames is warm and solid and very human in Arthur’s arms. Arthur stops on the pavement and thinks about lowering Eames down on the asphalt, but Eames keeps blinking until his eyes get focused and he _looks_ at Arthur and there’s no way Arthur could let go of him. He’s _warm._ And bleeding. And _warm._  
  
“Hi,” Eames says.  
  
“Hi,” Arthur says.  
  
Then he places Eames down on the ground and walks away.  
  
  
**  
  
  
They stay at the hospital for the whole day. Eames keeps swearing at the nurses and Arthur hovers by his bed. When Eames falls asleep, Arthur’s boss stops by and has a brief talk with Arthur about whether breaking humans’ wrists is an appropriate way to protect the client. Arthur apologizes and the boss tells him not to worry about it. The attackers’ wrists have been miraculously healed already.  
  
At nine o’clock in the evening, Eames climbs out of the window. Arthur has to grab Eames’ elbow a few times so that he doesn’t fall over, but Arthur does it so subtly it probably feels like the wind. Eames seems a little confused anyway. Then they get a taxi and go to a new hotel. Eames checks in and then almost collapses in the lift. Arthur holds him on his feet.  
  
“Odd,” Eames says, leaning his shoulder against the wall.  
  
The room is smaller than the last one. Eames goes to the bathroom, pulls off his shirt and leans closer to the mirror, staring at the wound on his shoulder. There’s blood soaking through the white bandage. Eames holds onto the sink and slowly sits down on the closed toilet seat, breathing hard. He looks pale. Arthur should’ve probably alarmed the nurse when it became clear that Eames was trying to escape. If only Arthur hadn’t been so busy trying to make certain Eames didn’t fall off the window, break his neck and die.  
  
“Shit,” Eames says through his gritted teeth and tries to stare at the shoulder wound.  
  
Arthur comes closer to him. The wound really looks bad. Arthur’s not going to touch it, of course not, he doesn’t even have _hands_ , he just leans closer and closer until he almost -  
  
Eames waves a hand through Arthur, blinks and does it again. Arthur keeps still. Maybe the painkillers the doctor gave Eames are mixing badly with the sedative from earlier. Maybe Eames is hallucinating. His breathing is warm on Arthur’s face and when Arthur is close to enough to feel the wound on Eames’ shoulder, Eames takes a deep breath.  
  
“I thought,” Eames says, which is odd because Arthur’s never heard Eames saying he would’ve been thinking, “when I stop feeling like I’m going to faint any second now, I’m going to go to a club and hit on someone. And then I’m going to bring him here, and keep him on that bed, no matter how many glass things get broken, and I’m going to make him fuck me, definitely, fuck me right there until I can’t remember any of my names. And then –“  
  
The sink breaks down into pieces.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Eames says, staring at the pieces on the floor. He definitely looks like he’s going to faint. The wound is bleeding more under the bandage. “Yeah,” Eames says in a weak voice, “yeah, I’ll let him fuck me from behind, you know, probably without a condom, and maybe, like, maybe on the table, only there’s no table in here, maybe on the floor, and he’s going to –“  
  
“Stop that,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames stops.  
  
Arthur realizes slowly that the echo of the words in the bathroom is the echo of his human voice, and that he’s wearing his human form, and that he’s standing on the floor in front of Eames and Eames is staring at him. He’s going to have to think about that sometime soon. Now, Eames sits back on the toilet seat, grabbing his knees and breathing hard, and for a second Arthur’s certain he’s going to fall onto the floor and Arthur’s going to have to catch him. But he doesn’t, so Arthur finds the emergency kit, rips off the ruined bandage, cleans the wound and puts on a new bandage. Eames stares at him.  
  
“Stop wriggling,” Arthur says, and Eames stops.  
  
“What -,” Eames says and then falls silent.  
  
“You’ve had a lot of painkillers,” Arthur says in a steady human voice, even though Eames is staring at him, at _him_ , looking him in the _eyes_ , and it’s the craziest thing that has happened to him in at least five thousand years. “You’re probably hallucinating.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Eames says in very quiet voice, and then he grabs Arthur’s wrist.  
  
Arthur should go.  
  
That’s it. Arthur should drop the human form and disappear and maybe fix the sink later when Eames would be sleeping. Everything would go back to normal. Arthur would be watching Eames and Eames would know nothing of it. It’s not uncommon that a human sees an angel. These days, most humans do anything to find an explanation that doesn’t include divine powers. They are actually very good at that. They can come up with almost anything from drugs to aliens. Arthur’s going to leave right now. The boss is probably going to want to talk to him about this, but otherwise, no harm has been done.  
  
It's just that Eames is still holding his wrist.  
  
“You got me out of the van,” Eames says, looking at Arthur in Arthur’s human eyes. “And I bet you broke my whiskey bottle.”  
  
“It wasn’t me,” Arthur says and then clears his throat. He’s not very accustomed to lying. “It was me. But I shouldn’t have.”  
  
“I knew it,” Eames says, his fingers tightening around Arthur’s wrist. “I _knew_ it. I knew I wasn’t imagining it.”  
  
“I need to go now,” Arthur says.  
  
“Absolutely not,” Eames says, pulling Arthur’s hand into his lap and placing Arthur’s fingers on his thigh. Arthur stares at his hand and at Eames’ thigh and then at Eames’ face. “You just broke my sink, darling. You’ve got to stay for a while and tell me something.”  
  
“What?” Arthur asks. He can’t tell Eames anything.  
  
“Who are you?” Eames clears his throat. “ _What_ are you?”  
  
Arthur tries to look anywhere else, but Eames is running his fingers on Arthur’s arm. He never knew it could feel like this. It’s a miracle that humans do anything else than this, anything besides stroking each other’s arms.  
  
“Tell me,” Eames says. “Darling, you’ve kind of blown your cover now. Just tell me.”  
  
Arthur’s human face feels oddly warm. “You shouldn’t have left the hospital. That was incredibly stupid. And dangerous. You could’ve got hurt. You could’ve fallen off the window and broken your neck.”  
  
Eames laughs. “Who are you, my mother?”  
  
“Of course not,” Arthur says quickly.  
  
Eames blinks. His hands go still on Arthur’s arm and he leans closer. “ _Are_ you my mother? She’s been dead for three years now, and she always said she’d be having an eye on me. She thought I was a bit reckless.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, and _surely_ it’s entirely his human body’s fault that he really needs Eames to start stroking his arm again. “Absolutely not. Your mother is a _human._ ”  
  
“ _Is?_ ” Eames asks and then pulls Arthur closer by his arm. “And you’re not, are you? A human, I mean.”  
  
“You should keep that wound clean,” Arthur says, “and get some sleep. And probably you should get back to the hospital. And never, ever take a job from Cobb again. That was just awful. You’re right, Cobb should get himself an adequate point man. He’s a mess. Even by human standards. And, you should go to London. I like that city. But don’t gamble. That’s dangerous. And never sell your organs in the black market, not even one of your kidneys. And try to sleep eight hours a day. And…”  
  
“Arthur?” someone says, but it’s not Eames, and it’s not a human voice. Eames is still stroking Arthur’s arm. Arthur’s boss is in the place where the sink was. He seems a little confused.  
  
Arthur drops the human form. Eames’ hands fall in his lap. The boss takes a deep breath. Arthur feels unbearably cold, which should be impossible.  
  
“Hey,” Eames is saying, waving his hands vaguely in the place where Arthur was, where Arthur _is_ , only now there’s nothing Eames can touch. “Hey, where did you… I thought you were… Just come back, okay? Just come back. I’m not going to fucking sell my kidneys. Who the fuck does that?”  
  
“He uses colorful language,” the boss say. “Are you sure you can handle this?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, even though he’s not sure at all and the boss knows it. The boss knows everything.  
  
“Just tell me if it’s too much,” the boss says. “We can get you someone else to look after.”  
  
“I can do this.”  
  
“Okay,” the boss says, now looking at Eames, who has his eyes fixed on the wall behind Arthur, his mouth half-open, his hands grabbing his knees as if he’s afraid he’s going to fall from the toilet seat. He looks like he’s in a lot of pain. “He seems nice.”  
  
“He is,” Arthur says.  
  
“Good work,” the boss says, clearly to himself, and then goes.  
  
Arthur stays in the bathroom, even though there’s nothing he’d like more than to be alone for a moment, and then to have a nice little conversation with his therapist. But he can’t leave Eames. There’re too many risks. Eames might fall onto his face and break his nose.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Eames says after a long silence filled with his heartbeat and breathing and the cracking of his knee every time he shifts, and other voices of a human body that Arthur is beginning to find oddly fascinating. “I’m going to go to sleep.”  
  
_Great idea_ , Arthur thinks. He follows Eames to the other room and then waits there when Eames sleeps.  
  
  
**  
  
  
In the morning, Eames wakes up looking a little confused. Then he tries to take a look on his shoulder and grimaces. Arthur is feeling optimistic. It’s been eight seconds already and Eames hasn’t shown any signs that he’d remember having met Arthur the last night. There’s a good chance that whatever Eames remembers of it, he’ll think was just hallucination.  
  
Then Eames gets out of the bed, grunts, goes to the bathroom, takes scissors and very elaborately makes a long cut on his palm.  
  
“Stop,” Arthur says, grabs the scissors and throws them at the floor, and grabs Eames by his shoulders. “What’re you doing? Don’t _do_ that, that’s going to –“  
  
“I thought so,” Eames says, licking his lips and sounding smug. It’s _infuriating._ Eames should be saying that he’s sorry for making Arthur’s job unnecessarily hard. “I thought,” Eames says, looking at Arthur in the eyes, “maybe you’re my guardian angel.”  
  
Arthur goes very still but can’t make himself disappear or even let go of Eames’ shoulders.  
  
“Because if you aren’t my mom coming to check on me, what else could you be, really?” Eames says. His voice is low and soft and a little hoarse. It’s wonderful. It’s as if Eames has different voices for everyone, a different one for Cobb and Ariadne, and a different one for Arthur.  
  
“I thought about it last night,” Eames goes on, “I thought that maybe you were my mother’s ghost after all, and I know you told me you weren’t, but that’d be just the kind of a thing she would say. But then I remembered the other thing she said to me when I was kid. She said to me that everyone has a guardian angel. _Everyone._ Including me. Of course that’s just bullshit. But you carried me out of a burning van and then disappeared. It kind of makes sense. It doesn’t explain why you stopped me from having sex last week, but I guess I’ll figure that one out later. Maybe he had STD. But I’m quite sure you’ve been trying to keep me from harm, including selling my organs in the black market. And I really don’t know how these things work, you know, I don’t know anything about supernatural beings that just appear out of nowhere and then disappear, just like that. Which was a rude thing to do, anyway. I was bleeding and you just left me here.”  
  
Arthur glances around. It seems that the boss doesn’t mind him talking to Eames, not enough to come to check on him at least.  
  
“I didn’t leave you,” Arthur says. “I was here the whole time.”  
  
Eames laughs in a surprised tone. “Oh, shit. Really?”  
  
“You just can’t see me,” Arthur says and then realizes he’s started running his human fingers on Eames’ shoulder. “Usually. Anyway, I need to clean that wound.”  
  
“Yeah, go ahead,” Eames says, “that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”  
  
Arthur frowns at him and then gets the emergency kit. Eames keeps staring at him when he pushes Eames to sit on the closed toilet seat, kneels on the floor and takes Eames’ hand in between his. Everything in Eames feels so fragile, but fingers especially. Arthur tries putting his own fingers in between Eames’ and they fit perfectly. Maybe this is what the boss meant when someone asked him why he made so many humans when one could’ve caused enough trouble, and he said that they’re supposed to keep each other company.  
  
“So,” Eames says, his voice sounding like he has difficulties maintaining a proper level of oxygen, “is this how it works? I get into trouble and you fix it for me.”  
  
Arthur pulls his hand back and then starts cleaning the wound on Eames’ palm. “Not at all.”  
  
“I was just wondering,” Eames says, “I’ve been in trouble quite many times. That wasn’t the first time someone shot me, for example. _And_ I have fucked people before. Like, _a lot._ And you haven’t broken anything, not until this week.”  
  
“I’ve only got this job for two weeks,” Arthur says. It’s fascinating how Eames’ fingers flinch when Arthur takes a firmer grip of his hand.  
  
“Two weeks?”  
  
“The one who was watching you before turned to the dark side.”  
  
“The dark side?” Eames asks. Arthur stares at him and he blinks. “ _Oh._ The dark side. Your people call it that?”  
  
“Only recently. The boss likes Star Wars.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, biting his teeth. “But for two weeks now, you’ve been watching me.”  
  
“That’s my job.”  
  
“Your job is to watch me.”  
  
“My job is to keep you alive and healthy.”  
  
Eames laughs. “Oh, fuck. You’re screwed. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not very –“  
  
“I’ve noticed.”  
  
Eames grins. “Well, it’s good to know I have back-up.”  
  
“You don’t –,” Arthur says and then pauses. He’s not going to lie. He takes a deep breath. It’s very exotic, breathing. “You _have_ back-up. Everyone does. But you aren’t supposed to _know_ that it’s me.”  
  
“But now I know,” Eames says. Arthur has already dealt with the wound, so there’s really no reason to keep holding Eames’ hand. He means to pull his hands away, but Eames grabs his wrist. “You don’t need to hide. I don’t mind that you’re watching me.”  
  
“Why?” Arthur asks, even though he’s not supposed to, he’s supposed to inform Eames that he is indeed going to watch Eames at all times and he’s not _hiding_ , he’s just _an angel_ and humans can’t see angels.  
  
Or actually, he’s supposed not to have said anything to Eames at all. Ever.  
  
And besides, why would he ask _why?_ Of course Eames doesn’t mind Arthur watching him. He’d be dead in a minute otherwise.  
  
“Have you seen yourself?” Eames asks.  
  
“Not recently,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames blinks. “What?”  
  
“Well, I _have_ tried a human form on a couple of times. Fifty-seven, to be exact. But the last time was when the Soviet Union collapsed and Elise got drunk and afterwards slept for twelve hours. I was bored. And I had been watching a lot of James Bond movies. I wanted to try something like that.”  
  
“Who’s Elise?”  
  
“That’s classified information.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, looking slightly concerned for no reason at all. “Okay. I just meant to point out that you look very nice, darling.”  
  
“I don’t look like this.”  
  
“You don’t?”   
  
“This is just the human form I put on,” Arthur says, “I’m _an angel._ ”  
  
“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Eames says, grinning. “Listen, I’m very glad you fixed my hand for me, and I apologize for making you do it. I just wanted to see you again, since the last time you left so suddenly. But I was wondering, would you like to have something to drink? I think I still have some whiskey.”  
  
“You do,” Arthur says, “and no, thank you. I really should be going.”  
  
“But I just met you,” Eames says, holding Arthur’s wrist.  
  
“I’ll be here,” Arthur says and pulls his hand free. He feels suddenly cold. Very interesting. “But don’t cut yourself with scissors anymore. And don’t get shot. And don’t –“  
  
“And don’t fuck anyone?” Eames says, licking his lip.  
  
“No,” Arthur says and blinks, “yes, that was… I mean, of course you can… I just wasn’t…”  
  
And then he can’t figure out what more to say, so he takes one more deep breath and goes. He keeps away for almost thirty seconds. Surely Eames can keep himself alive for that long.  
  
When he gets back, Eames is sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to pull on the socks. The shoulder wound must be hurting him, but he’s humming a Christmas carol Elise always hated.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Eames books a flight to London. Arthur follows him to the airport and then hovers right behind his back when he sits down on the seat in between a window and a very cranky young woman, whose angel seems bored out of his mind. The plane sets off, Eames orders a beer, and Arthur leans closer. It’s funny how different Eames’ skin felt when Arthur touched him as a human. Now that Arthur’s being himself, the warmth of the back of Eames’ neck feels flat and distant under his touch, like looking at a picture of a landscape instead of the actual landscape. It’s too bad humans can’t visit places without moving their material body through distances by a number of unpractical vehicles. The idiots haven’t yet figured out how to teleport, even though the boss has dropped plenty of subtle hints about its practicality in science fiction.  
  
Arthur only realizes he’s still touching Eames’ neck, when Eames shivers abruptly. The woman sitting next to Eames throws a glance at him and Eames grins at the woman so widely it makes Arthur shiver in turn. Then Eames places the laptop onto his knees and starts typing.  
  
_Where’re you, darling?_  
  
Arthur frowns. Mentally. That seems a bit odd. Maybe Eames is writing experimental fiction.  
  
_I bet you’re right behind me. I bet you’re groping my neck with those lovely lean fingers of yours.  
  
_Arthur leans back a little. It’d be absurd to think that Eames would be writing for _him._ That has never happened before. But, to be fair, he’s never showed himself to a human before, either.  
  
_Not that I mind. Because I don’t. Trust me, nothing would make me happier than knowing there’s a divine creature dying to have their fingers on my skin. It’s that I’d prefer to feel it, really. But I kind of see why you can’t show yourself here. Might be a bit awkward for the others.  
  
_Eames stops typing for a few seconds. Arthur wishes he could pray that Eames would put the laptop away, but he could as well call the boss’ name and tell him outright what’s happening. Then Eames takes a deep breath and starts again. _  
  
AND you don’t have a seat.  
  
_A short pause, and then: _  
  
Well, actually. You could sit in my lap, darling. I wouldn’t mind. Not at all._  
  
Arthur tries not to panic. No one else knows what Eames is doing, except him and, probably, the boss. Everyone else thinks Eames is just a very handsome writer on his way to London to finish his latest experimental piece of literature.  
  
_Anyway, I’ve been wondering_ , Eames types, _why do you always break something when I try to fuck someone? And when I talk about fucking someone? I understand why you got frustrated when I got shot in the shoulder -  
  
_Eames’ hands stop for a few seconds.  
  
_Thank you for that, by the way. I guess you saved my life back there._  
  
Arthur has an odd feeling of lingering warmth. Naturally, he’s saved plenty of lives before. That’s his _job._ He doesn’t expect humans to thank him about it.  
  
And no one ever has, not until now.  
  
_Okay_ , Eames types _, back to fucking. You broke my bottle of whiskey when I was about to fuck that guy whose name I can’t remember just now but who was nice enough, don’t you agree? I wouldn’t have MARRIED him or anything like that. Just a nice quick shag with a decent guy, right? It helps me to sleep sometimes.  
  
_Arthur leans back. He wants to say he’s sorry, which would be stupid because he isn’t. It’s impossible to think about a scenario, in which he wouldn’t have broken the bottle, and Eames and the unknown human would’ve ended up -  
  
But he can’t bear to think about it. He tries not to and fails, and then, luckily, Eames starts typing again.  
  
_No need to be sorry about that, though. It’s not like I’m angry. I didn’t like him that much anyway. But I’m CURIOUS. Because it seems almost like you were jealous. But that can’t be, because you’re an angel, and angels don’t like sex, right? So it can’t be that you have a thing for me, darling, and that’s why you didn’t want to see me fucking that nice lad. It can’t be that you just couldn’t bear the thought of me slowly undressing him and having him right there until the both of us would be so exhausted we couldn’t even -  
  
STOP._  
  
Eames stops so abruptly the laptop almost falls from his knees. Arthur stares at the words on the screen. _STOP._ He shouldn’t have written that, of course. He shouldn’t have. But then again, Eames already knows Arthur’s here.  
  
Eames takes a deep breath and starts typing again, this time a little slower. Arthur leans closer to see.  
  
_Why the caps lock, darling? Are you angry?_  
  
Arthur stays still for a few seconds. He shouldn’t answer. But where’s the harm in some casual typing?  
  
_I ALWAYS TYPE WITH CAPS LOCK.  
  
Always? Do you lot type a lot?  
  
THE HUMAN I WAS WATCHING OVER BEFORE YOU BOUGHT A PC IN 1992.  
  
How nice. And you stole it?  
  
OF COURSE NOT. I BORROWED IT WHEN SHE WAS ASLEEP.  
  
That was very subtle of you, _Eames types and then quickly looks over his shoulder. _Why is it that you don’t want me to have sex?_  
  
Arthur thinks for a moment. _I WANT YOU TO HAVE SEX,_ he types, but it seems wrong somehow. _I DON’T MIND IF YOU HAVE SEX._  
  
Eames snorts. _But you break things when I try to do it or talk about it.  
  
IT'S NOT MY BUSINESS.  
  
No, it isn’t, _Eames says. _Are you nervous about me having sex?_  
  
_OF COURSE NOT.  
  
You seem like you’re a little nervous.  
  
I AM NOT NERVOUS.  
  
Right,_ Eames says, chewing on his lower lip. _So, you aren’t nervous. That’s great because as you know, sex is just sex.  
  
I KNOW.  
  
I mean, it can be very nice if all involved parties are feeling good about it. Which you know already, of course. BUT you’re going to see me having sex at some point, aren’t you? You’re going to be watching. You will be very aware of how very nice it can be. So I just hope that you’ll stop breaking objects at some point.  
  
I WILL NOT BREAK ANY FURTHER OBJECTS.  
  
I THINK.  
  
Alright, darling. But let me just ask you, were you watching me yesterday morning when I took a wank in the shower? I just want to know.  
  
WATCHING YOU IS MY JOB. I DON’T ENJOY IT IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE IMPLYING.  
  
I wasn’t implying anything, _Eames types. He’s smiling. _So you WERE watching me.  
  
NOT CLOSELY.  
  
I don’t mind, darling. That’s my point exactly. I’m going to have sex and you’re going to watch and that’s perfectly fine. Do you know what to do if a condom breaks?  
  
YES.  
  
Well, that’s a relief, then._ Eames brushes his fingertips against his upper lip. It’s possible that he’s trying to hide his grin. The woman sitting next to him is throwing quick glances at him. _I’m glad to know I’m being taken care of. Thank you for that.  
  
YOU’RE WELCOME.  
  
_Eames snorts. The woman leans away from him.  
  
_Anyway, darling. Tell me something about yourself.  
  
PLEASE, SPECIFY.  
  
How old are you?  
  
_Arthur stares at the screen for a few seconds. He’s quite certain that his contract of employment doesn’t explicitly forbid him of telling a client his age.  
  
_APPROXIMATELY A FEW MILLION YEARS.  
  
_Eames freezes for a second.  
  
_Nice. So, young for an angel, right?  
  
YES.  
  
And what did you do before you became a guardian angel?  
  
GARDENING.  
  
_Eames laughs briefly. _Really?  
  
YES.  
  
Gardening what?  
  
THE EARTH.  
  
And, do you have any favourite plant, then?  
  
YES.  
  
Would you care to tell me what that is?  
  
FINE. MY FAVORITE PLANT IS PINE TREE.  
  
A pine tree? Aren’t they a little bit dull?  
  
NOT AT ALL. _Arthur stops for a second. But then again, humans _never_ ask him about his previous jobs, even though they _know_ their species has been around for only a little while. And _no one_ has asked him about pine trees. Not even his therapist. _BEFORE THE LATEST ICE AGE, I HAD A JOB AT TAKING CARE OF THE PINE TREES IN FINLAND. A VERY NICE PLACE. VERY QUIET. FEW HUMANS. I WOULD LIKE TO VISIT THERE AGAIN. I HEAR IT HASN’T CHANGED MUCH.  
  
I could take you.  
  
_Arthur slips closer to Eames. Adult humans don’t often linger in each other’s laps, but then again, Arthur is not a human. _I WAS SAD WHEN THE TEMPERATURE DROPPED AND MY PINES FROZE.  
**  
**_ Eames frowns. _Oh. What happened?  
  
THE LATEST ICE AGE.  
  
_Eames grins. Arthur can’t figure out why. _I’m sorry to hear that._  
_  
YES. THANK YOU.  
  
Okay, _Eames types after a short break. _I’ll ask you something else. Something that won’t make you remember sad things. Probably. What do you look like? For real?  
  
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FOR REAL?  
  
When you aren’t trying to look like a human.  
  
DO YOU MEAN, WHAT MY BODY LOOKS LIKE?  
  
_Eames’ neck and cheeks turn a bit red. Maybe there’s something wrong with the air conditioning on the plane. _  
  
I suppose, yeah.  
  
I DON’T HAVE A BODY.  
  
Not at all? Not, like, wings and feathers and stuff?  
  
NO.  
  
You don’t have wings?  
  
NO. BUT I CAN HAVE WINGS IF YOU LIKE.  
  
Really? Could you?_  
  
It's weird how happy Eames looks. They are just _wings.  
  
YES, _Arthur types, _OF COURSE. IT’S POSSIBLE. ALTHOUGH I DON’T SEE ANY SCENARIO IN WHICH ME HAVING WINGS IS ESSENTIAL FOR YOUR HEALTH AND WELL-BEING.  
  
I do,_ Eames types. _Hey, I have another question. What’s your name?_  
  
_ARTHUR._


	3. The Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is coffee and naked men.

“Here we are,” Eames says, closing the front door of his house in London. “Welcome. I’m going to take a piss and have a glass of water and then I’m going to show you the place. Make yourself at home.”  
  
Eames drops the luggage in the hallway and goes to the bathroom. Arthur can’t decide what else to do, so he follows Eames. Eames leaves the bathroom door open, so Arthur hovers outside, watching the posters on the walls. It’s not that he has weird personal interest in the way humans decorate their homes, it’s just that Elise had a lot of decoration magazines and Arthur used to read them when she was sleeping, which happened a lot in her last years. There never was anything like Eames’ home in those magazines. Having both orange and dark purple in one square meter seems like a questionable choice. Maybe Arthur should buy Eames a few magazines to improve his style. That might make the next sixty years smoother for them both.  
  
“Great,” Eames says and stops at the bathroom doorway. “Now, let’s walk through the house. I hope you’re following me but then again, what else would you be doing? Come here, this is the living room. You can sit on anywhere you like except that orange sofa. I’m a little sensitive about it, because I’ve had it since I was eighteen. I even rescued it from a burning house once, can you believe that?”  
  
Arthur looks at the sofa. He can believe that.  
  
“It’s my favorite,” Eames says, “so I don’t want you to get your feathers on it. Anywhere else is fine. Including my bed. So, there’s television, feel free to use it. And my stereo system is quite nice. Do you like music? I’m going to have to play you a few records. But I’m just going to have to say, if you’ve got something against cheesy music from the 80’s, this thing between you and me, it’s not going to work out. Otherwise, I’m pretty flexible. Not physically, of course. I don’t have patience for stretching. But you can listen to almost any record you want. Have you heard _Heaven Is a Place on Earth?_ It seems like something you might like. Okay, here’s the kitchen.”  
  
Eames walks to the kitchen. Arthur follows on his footsteps, quite literally. This close, he can feel Eames’ warmth.  
  
“The coffee machine is a bit tricky but I’ll show you how it works,” Eames says, “in case you drink coffee. If you prefer tea, you’re lucky, because I have plenty of that. I have a few neighbors, you know, elderly ladies who like to visit when I’m in town. They always bring me new boxes of tea. Apparently they think I don’t drink enough tea, and they’re right. So, help yourself. And here’s the fridge. It’s empty now but I’m going to go buy groceries later. What do you like to eat, darling?”  
  
Arthur’s looking at the pictures on the fridge door. There’s Eames with his mother. Both of them are younger in the picture and, in Eames’ mother’s case, more alive.  
  
Eames takes a deep sigh. “This would be much easier if you answered me, darling. And I don’t understand why you have to be invisible all the time.”  
  
Arthur wants to argue about that. Firstly, he doesn’t _eat._ He’s an _angel._ Can’t Eames do a little bit research on this? And secondly, Eames is not supposed to expect Arthur to answer him.  
  
It feels kind of nice, though.  
  
“I don’t eat,” he says.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, grabbing his shoulders and smiling at him, “you appeared again. That’s just marvelous. I was getting lonely.”  
  
Arthur frowns.  
  
“Don’t frown at me like that,” Eames says. “May I point out that this time, I didn’t cause myself bodily harm trying to get your attention. It’s just that it’s nice to be able to see you. And to touch you. So,” Eames pats Arthur on the shoulder, “back to my question. What do you like to eat? We should probably go to Tesco later.”  
  
“I don’t eat,” Arthur says.  
  
“Oh, darling, that’s just nonsense,” Eames says, “you’re already so thin. Do you eat meat?”  
  
“Like,” Arthur says, “other animals? Besides your species?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “obviously you wouldn’t eat _me_. I bet that would get you fired, since you’re supposed to be keeping me alive, not the other way around. Anyway, I’m not very good with vegetarian dishes but I can cook something for you, if you like.”  
  
“Eames, I don’t _eat._ I don’t have a digestive system because I don’t have a body.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, taking a step back and looking at Arthur. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Of course I’m sure, I’m millions of years old, I’m not _stupid_ –“  
  
“I meant,” Eames cuts in, “you have a body now, don’t you? A human body. With very nice lean shoulders, if I may point out. And I like your arms, too. Even though I think it’s a bit ridiculous that you’re wearing a suit. Who do you think you are, James Bond?”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says.  
  
“I also like your nose,” Eames says, “and your eyes, they are really nice. They keep staring at me like you can’t decide what to think of me. But in a nice way. And I like your mouth. Can you smile? Because I bet that’d look good on you.”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, “I’ve never tried.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, “don’t worry about that, darling. We’ll work on that. But tell me, if I make you a toast now, can you eat it? Theoretically?”  
  
“I suppose,” Arthur says. Of course, that would be absolutely pointless.  
  
“Great,” Eames says and smiles at him so widely it throws him off-balance. Mentally. Physically, he seems to be frozen. “I’m also going to make you coffee. You’re going to have to try it, it’s so good. I don’t know how you’ve survived millions of years without coffee.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, but it doesn’t seem to bother Eames, who takes a firm grip on his shoulders and walks him to the table, then pushes at him gently until he sits down in a chair, like a human. He wonders briefly what the boss is doing now. Perhaps the boss has better things to do than to personally watch Arthur trying to do this job. And it’s not like Arthur isn’t watching over Eames. He has his eyes firmly on Eames as Eames makes him a half-burned toast with marmalade on it, brings it to him and tells him to try it.   
  
“Come on, Arthur,” Eames says. “Just put it in your mouth and take a bite. It’s that easy.”  
  
Arthur slowly takes the toast, puts it in his mouth and takes a bite.  
  
It’s very weird.  
  
Eames laughs. “Your face, darling, your face is just… You look so _confused._ ”  
  
“I am confused,” Arthur says, his mouth full of toast.  
  
“I know,” Eames says, brushing his fingers against Arthur’s arm briefly before going back to the coffee machine. “You have to swallow, dear. Swallow it and try again. If you don’t like toast and marmalade, I’ll make you something else next time.”  
  
Arthur swallows. It feels weird and a little wrong somehow, but surprisingly his human body seems to know how to do it. He takes another bite. The taste is actually… it’s good once you’ve got used to having something in your mouth. “I like this.”  
  
Eames looks genuinely happy. “Good. Now, here’s your coffee. I’ll put milk in it, because this is your first time.”  
  
Arthur tries the coffee. It tastes awful.  
  
“Try again,” Eames says. “It might take a few tries to get used to the taste. But you’re going to thank me later. Trust me.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t.  
  
He takes another sip of his coffee anyway. It’s not as bad as the first one was. The third sip isn’t bad at all. The fourth is very bearable in a strange way. The fifth is nice. The sixth is _good.  
  
_“See?” Eames says, sitting at the other side of the table. “This is nice, don’t you think? You and me, having a cup of coffee and talking.”  
  
“Like two humans.”  
  
“Exactly.” Eames stares at him until he shifts in his chair. “You don’t have to disappear, Arthur.”  
  
“This is not professional.”  
  
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”  
  
“The boss will know.”  
  
Eames blinks.  
  
“I should really go,” Arthur says and stands up. The chair falls onto the floor but he can’t fix it now. It’s too much that Eames is watching him like he sees _him_ , which he does, and Arthur can’t do this, no, he can’t figure out a way to explain this to his therapist in a way that wouldn’t make him sound like he’s lost his mind. And when the boss is going to have a talk about this with Arthur, he’s going to look at Arthur like he _knows_ what Arthur’s going through and he _feels_ for Arthur, but doesn’t Arthur know that this is bad for him? And the worst thing is, Arthur _does_ know _._ He _knows_ he’s not supposed to grow fond of a human. Humans _die_ and there’s no way to stop them.  
  
“Don’t go,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur blinks. He’s already standing in the doorway. “I won’t. I mean… I’m going to… I just need a minute. Don’t die when I’m gone.”  
  
“I won’t,” Eames says. “But you’re going to come back?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, “but you can’t see me then.”  
  
And then he goes.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Arthur, did you see that?” Eames asks, staring at the television. Young men are running on a grass field in tight shirts and tiny shorts, colliding with each other and yelling constantly. “Arthur? Did you see that? That was _brilliant._ Shit, I wish I knew where you are.”  
  
Arthur is right next to Eames on the sofa where he was specifically told not to leave feathers. For some reason, it brings him mild pleasure to do the exact thing Eames told him not to do. Maybe that’s because Eames’ request was so irrational in the first place. Arthur doesn’t have _feathers._ But he can see why Eames likes the sofa. He’s sure it would be very comfortable for someone with a human body, able to sit on it like Eames, whose legs are sprawled so that his left knee gets slowly closer to Arthur.  
  
“This is so nice,” Eames says and takes a sip of a can of beer he found very loudly in the kitchen cupboard half an hour ago, “you and me spending a quiet night at home, watching sports. If only I could see you, darling.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t like sports. He has nothing against the concept, it’s just that it’s completely absurd and idiotic. He’s genuinely tried to figure out why so many humans seem fond of this madness. But the more he thinks about it, the more it seems that humans have just come up with a bunch of illogical rules and then follow them, usually with a ball of some sort, and somehow manage to connect it with national pride, which of course is another questionable concept. Humans invented nation states barely a few hundred years ago and then immediately forgot that they had invented them and begun thinking that nation states were the natural order of things. The boss has had a few sad laughs about that.  
  
“Do you like sports, Arthur?” Eames says, his eyes fixed on the scarcely dressed young men on the television. “You’re going to have to tell me what you’d like to watch. I can’t stand anything with swords, guns or crawling. Reminds me of work. But otherwise, anything goes. Actually, maybe we could go to play football some time, you and me. I’m going to bring my gun so you don’t have to worry about me getting killed at all, and then you can just enjoy the game. That’d be brilliant, wouldn’t it? Maybe next Wednesday or –“  
  
Eames’ cellphone makes a noise.  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, grabbing the machine and glaring at it. “It’s Cobb. Can you believe it? He’s asking me if I think I might be in Rio de Janeiro two weeks from now. I know he’s getting crazy and that he can’t get himself a good point man because everyone realizes he’s getting crazy, and that’s making him even crazier. He just wants to get home to his kids. And I feel for him, I _do_ , but I just did a job for him and got shot at both at the beginning and in the end. I’m not going to work with him anytime soon.”  
  
That’s good. Eames is a lot safer here, sitting on the sofa with Arthur, watching sweaty half-naked men running here and there.  
  
“They think he killed her wife,” Eames says. “That’s why he can’t go home. And that’s why he’s turning into an idiot.”  
  
Arthur stares at Eames. He’s going to have to check Cobb’s file as soon as he can bear to leave Eames for a few seconds. Perhaps Cobb is even worse company for Eames than Arthur originally thought.  
  
“And before you ask, he didn’t. There’s no way. Cobb’s smart but Mal was so much smarter. Cobb couldn’t have done it even though he’d have wanted to, and he wouldn’t have. Never. They were so in love that it was sickening to watch it.” Eames sighs and leans back on the sofa, pushing his elbow through Arthur. Then he blinks and turns to look at Arthur’s direction. “Is that you?”  
  
Arthur’s been professional for five and a half hours now. Surely he can allow himself to slip a little. “How can you tell?” he asks, crossing his legs. The sofa is even more comfortable than he thought, and Eames is sitting closer to him than he realized. Also, Eames’ scent is very pleasant for Arthur’s human nose.  
  
“I just thought,” Eames says, watching him, “I thought… Wait, am I not supposed to notice?”  
  
“You can’t _feel_ me,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yes, I can,” Eames says, poking at him in the cheek. He leans away from the touch and almost falls from the sofa.  
  
“I meant, not when I’m being myself.”  
  
“Not when you’re being an invisible angel made of air, then,” Eames says and takes a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know. There’s something. I don’t know what that is, but even before you started breaking all that glass and porcelain, I had this funny feeling sometimes. Like there was something I couldn’t see.”  
  
“What’s that like?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eames says, watching him. “Maybe I don’t actually _feel_ you. Maybe it’s just a doubt in my mind. A thought that there’s something in there. I’m good with details. And I’m good at noticing things.”  
  
“You noticed me.”  
  
“Well, you saved me from a burning van, carrying me on your arms,” Eames says. “It was a bit hard not to notice. By the way, how strong are you?”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Arthur says. Maybe he could ask the boss about why Eames seems different than any other human Arthur’s met before. The boss probably knows, at least if whatever is making Eames special was intentional and not a design flaw.  
  
“You lifted me like it was nothing.”  
  
“You’re _a human._ ”  
  
“So,” Eames says slowly, leaning closer to Arthur, “you could lift me easily.”  
  
“Of course I could.”  
  
“I don’t believe it.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “You just mentioned it yourself.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, smiling, “yeah, maybe you were panicking and that was why you were able to carry me out of that van. But normally you couldn’t do it.”  
  
“Yes, I could.”  
  
“I don’t believe it. Not unless you show me.”  
  
Arthur stares at him for a few seconds. This utterly ridiculous. “Show you how?”  
  
“Lift me,” Eames says and stands up.  
  
“Why?” Arthur says and stands up as well.  
  
“So that I will believe you,” Eames says. “Come on, James Bond. Show me how strong you are.”  
  
“This is ridiculous,” Arthur says, wraps his left arm under Eames’ knees and the other behind Eames’ back, and lifts.  
  
“Holy shit,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s shoulder. His breath is warm on Arthur’s neck and Arthur can feel his heartbeat.  
  
“Where do I put you?” Arthur says. Not that he’s in a hurry to put Eames anywhere. Maybe if Eames broke his leg or something, Arthur could carry him everywhere like this, and he could wrap his arm behind Arthur’s shoulders like that and breathe on Arthur’s skin.  
  
“Anywhere,” Eames says, “maybe the bed.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Eames laughs. “Oh my God. Don’t put me in _bed,_ it’d be… I don’t know how I’d take it. Can you just take me to the kitchen? I’m hungry.”  
  
“Don’t you want to watch the half-naked men?” Arthur asks.  
  
Eames just stares at him.  
  
“On the television.”  
  
“ _Ah_ ,” Eames says and glances at the television. Apparently there’re three men fighting about who gets to hug the ball. “That’s fine. I already forgot about them. You’re much better.”  
  
It'd be absurd for Arthur to be glad about that. _Of course_ he’s better than the men on the television. He’s Eames’ _guardian angel._ He’s keeping Eames _alive._  
  
And apparently also carrying Eames to the kitchen.  
  
“Thank you,” Eames says, when he’s finally standing on his own two feet again. “That was exciting.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“Would you like some coffee, Arthur? We’re going to have to stay awake for at least four more hours if we want to beat the jet lag.”  
  
Arthur thinks briefly about changing into his normal form. He thinks about hovering silently aside and listening to Eames’ nonsense going on and on without a chance to answer. He thinks about staying next to Eames on the sofa, Eames’ arm going straight through Arthur, the warmth of Eames’ skin barely more than an idea. He thinks about his therapist, whose advice he rarely listens to anyway.  
  
“Yes, I would, thank you,” he says and sits down at the table.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Arthur, I can’t find my boxers,” Eames says from the bathroom. “I’m _sure_ I did laundry before I left, but maybe that was in Mombasa. Or in Reykjavik. Have you ever been there? We should go. That’s where I go when I want to be alone for a few weeks and have nice long walks in an awful wind. But don’t tell anyone. I’m trying to make people think that I’m a people person. And I _am._ Just not, you know, always. Could you find me a pair of boxers, darling?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Arthur says. He’s sitting on the edge of Eames’ bed, still looking like a human, still breathing, still answering to Eames in his human voice. Maybe the boss has given up on Arthur and that’s why Arthur hasn’t heard of him. Or maybe Arthur’s already got fired.  
  
It’s surprisingly nice to be able to talk to his human instead of only watching, though. Nice and addictive.  
  
“I just thought, maybe you could locate my boxers with your super powers,” Eames says, coming to the bathroom doorway. He’s naked.  
  
Arthur blinks.  
  
Eames frowns at him and then flinches and makes a vague gesture towards his own genitalia. “Sorry. I thought you were… you’ve seen me before, right? I didn’t think you’d be shocked.”  
  
“I’m not _shocked_ ,” Arthur says, only his voice comes out different than he wanted it to. Weird. It’s like he’s not in full control of his responses. “And I have seen you before.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says with a grin, but he’s still looking at Arthur as if he’s trying to decide something. “So, you don’t mind.”  
  
“Mind what?”  
  
“That I’m waving my dick around in front of your face.”  
  
“You are not _waving_ -,” Arthur begins and then glances at the said part of Eames’ body. “It would be exceptionally unprofessional to be bothered about human genitalia.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says. “So, about those boxers –“  
  
“That’s not my job.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really,” Arthur says slowly, “my job is not to locate your underwear.”  
  
“Too bad,” Eames says, but he’s grinning. “I guess it wouldn’t be unhealthy or dangerous to sleep naked.”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
“It’s just that I’ve got to wear something or else my balls might get uncomfortable during the night,” Eames says, walking to the closet. “There’s got to be a pair of boxers here somewhere. Anyway, aren’t you going to take a shower?”  
  
It takes Arthur a few seconds to realize what Eames asked, possibly because he’s thinking about the only pair of boxers in the whole closet, hidden underneath layers of socks. It’s going to take Eames at least five minutes to find the boxers. But it’s not Arthur’s job to tell him where they are. Arthur’s not here to locate boxers, absolutely not, that’s where he draws the line. He’s here to sit on Eames’ bed and talk about Eames’ genitalia but _not_ to locate boxers.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
“What? _Oh._ A shower?”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, “you know, in which you stand in the shower cubicle and the water falls on you –“  
  
“I’ve seen many showers,” Arthur says. “But no, thank you.”  
  
“So you’ve never taken a shower.”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Because your feathers don’t like to get wet.”  
  
“I don’t have _feathers_ ,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames laughs, which is completely absurd, but Arthur doesn’t have time to think about that, because there’s something odd happening on his face. The corners of his mouth are twitching.  
  
“It’s nice,” Eames says, apparently not noticing that there’s something wrong with Arthur. “You should try it.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it’s nice.”  
  
“So,” Arthur says slowly, “I should undress and go stand naked in the shower cubicle and let the water fall on me.”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, “exactly.”  
  
“I can’t see the point.”  
  
Eames takes a deep sigh, then gives up going through a box of socks and walks to Arthur. Before Arthur has time to figure out what he should do, professionally speaking, Eames places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.  
  
Arthur’s human body shivers.  
  
“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” Eames says. “On your skin. Taking a shower feels nice, too.”  
  
Arthur glances at Eames, then at the bathroom. Then he stands up and starts undressing. Eames takes a step back and just watches him, and he tries to remember the times when he saw James Bond undress in those movies. There’re too many buttons, and every time he thinks he’s managed it, there’s a new piece of clothing to get rid of.  
  
When he glances at Eames again, finally wearing nothing but boxers, he realizes Eames is watching his hands. “What?”  
  
Eames blinks and returns his gaze onto Arthur’s eyes. “Nothing, darling. It’s just… You look so concentrated, doing that.”  
  
“I’ve never undressed before,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames laughs a little breathlessly. Arthur takes off his boxers and folds them on a pile of his clothes, then turns and walks to the bathroom. The air feels odd on his bare human skin. The tile floor feels odd against his feet. It’s also a little cold in here. He stares at the shower cubicle for a few seconds, wondering if he’s doing this wrong somehow, so it’s a relief when Eames follows him to the bathroom.  
  
“Just get in there, darling,” Eames says in a quiet voice.  
  
Arthur does. Then he just stands there, until Eames walks to him, sets the water running and backs off.  
  
It's nice.  
  
He closes his eyes and stays still. He can feel the warm water running everywhere on his skin. It’s soft and still not soft somehow. It’s _brilliant,_ like Eames would say.  
  
“So,” Eames says in a quiet voice, close to Arthur.  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says. It’s an understatement, but he can’t figure out how to best describe this.  
  
“I knew you’d like it,” Eames says. “Just take your time. I’ll leave you a towel.” Then he takes a step towards the door.  
  
“Eames.”  
  
Eames stops. “What, dear?”  
  
“I don’t really know what to do in here.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, blinking. “You don’t really have to do anything special. I guess you don’t have to get yourself clean or anything, because you can just angel it all away anytime you want. But maybe you could, I don’t know, try rubbing your hair or something. Just find out what feels nice.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, still watching Eames.  
  
Eames frowns at him. “Do you want me to keep you company or something?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says. That makes much more sense than Arthur taking a shower all by himself, like a human.  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, “that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine, darling, that’s just… _okay._ I’ll just stand here, alright?”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“And watch you.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says and clears his throat. “I’m going to watch you and… Darling, you know that I’m just a human, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
“I meant,” Eames says, looking a little flushed, which is odd, because the temperature in the bathroom is quite low for a human and Eames is naked, “you look really nice, darling, you know that, you –“  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to tell you that, many times. But, darling, you look nice and you’re just standing there, all wet and naked and rubbing your hair. I might have, you know, my _body_ might have a _reaction_ to you being so… wet.”  
  
“Oh,” Arthur says, “you mean erection.”  
  
Eames nods.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, “that’s perfectly normal for a human.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says, taking a deep breath, “yeah, I know, I was just… I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, darling, absolutely not, it’s just that you look so good, and I can’t help it, I just…”  
  
And then Arthur stops listening, because there’s another voice, the voice that Arthur definitely doesn’t want to hear now.  
  
“Arthur,” the boss says, “what’re you doing?”  
  
Arthur drops the human form. “I don’t know. Sorry. I wasn’t… I didn’t…”  
  
“The shower is a very nice thing,” the boss says. “one of the nice things they have invented. It’s a relief that they come up with something else than guns and nuclear bombs once in a while. Anyway, I have to go, there’re quite many humanitarian crises going on. I just wish they wouldn’t mess things up faster than I manage to set them right. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you to be careful. I know how fascinating humans are, but they break each other’s hearts _all the time._ I know you don’t have a heart, Arthur, but I just don’t want you to get hurt.”  
  
Arthur nods.  
  
“Good luck,” the boss says and leaves.  
  
Eames is staring at the water that’s still running. Then he shakes his head slightly and goes to turn off the water. Arthur waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Eames starts talking at the middle of the night. First, he says he’s sorry. Then he says he’s sorry again, this time sounding a little mortified. Then he says he’s sorry about his erection and about standing there naked and watching Arthur, he just really thought it wouldn’t be a problem since Arthur’s seen him naked before, and he never wanted to make Arthur uncomfortable, really, he thinks consent is _essential_ when it comes to these things and that applies to angels as well, and if Arthur could just forgive him he’d be so happy and never, ever wave his dick at Arthur’s face again, please, could Arthur just say that it’s fine? At which point Arthur has a tight feeling in his chest, which is odd because he doesn’t have a chest, not until he decides that he’s already been so unprofessional today he shouldn’t be able to make things any worse.  
  
“Oh, thank God,” Eames says, reaching for him and then suddenly stilling.  
  
“You can touch me, I don’t mind,” Arthur says. He’s wearing a t-shirt, shorts and a tie. That should be appropriately casual for a human hanging around in another human’s bedroom at the middle of the night.  
  
Eames looks confused but then places his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –“  
  
“It wasn’t you, it was me,” Arthur says, “or actually, it was the boss. He came by. I had to drop my human form.”  
  
“The boss came by?” Eames asks in a thin voice.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You mean, he personally came by? In my _bathroom?_ How’s that even…”  
  
“He can be anywhere. Or everywhere at once. He’s the boss.”  
  
“Right,” Eames says, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder tighter. “Just… okay. So, you aren’t mad at me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I thought I had made you uncomfortable. Unintentionally. Because I’d never –“  
  
“I know,” Arthur says, which is odd, because he _doesn’t_ really know that. Humans are irresponsible by nature. They are fundamentally unable to make a promise never to do something. But Eames is looking at Arthur in the eyes and running his thumb on the line of Arthur’s chin and it’s easy to ignore the fact that Eames is irreparably human.  
  
“Actually, you look a lot like Joseph Gordon-Levitt,” Eames says, leaning closer to Arthur. “Have you seen any of his movies? 500 Days of Summer, perhaps?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Arthur says, “I usually stick with James Bond.”  
  
“Maybe you saw him in a magazine or something and thought he was cute,” Eames says. “What do you think of me?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Do you think I’m cute?” Eames asks, pulling his hand away, which is unfortunate, but then Eames shifts closer to Arthur on the mattress they’re both sitting on. Arthur pushes his legs under Eames’ blanket. It’s weirdly, satisfyingly pleasant.  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” Arthur says.  
  
“Of course you would,” Eames says. “You chose to be James Bond because you thought he was handsome.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “I just like his style. And he does exciting stuff with, you know, guns and cars.”  
  
“Oh, I know,” Eames says. “I bet you can’t name whoever you think is the most handsome James Bond actor.”  
  
“Sean Connery,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames laughs. “Okay. So, back to my question. Do you think I’m cute?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says.  
  
There’s something like shock on Eames’ face.  
  
“Dogs are cute,” Arthur says, “pine trees are magnificent. There’re different positive adjectives suitable for different objects.”  
  
Eames frowns. “You don’t think I look magnificent?”  
  
Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“What, then?” Eames asks, straightening his back. “You’ve got to tell me or else I can’t fall asleep and that’s very unhealthy.”  
  
“I can’t describe you.”  
  
“I thought you’d know a lot of words,” Eames says, “since you’re a few million years old.”  
  
“I think you are nice.”  
  
Eames stares at him, then slowly begins to smile. “Nice?”  
  
“Yes.” Arthur nods. “That seems suitable.”  
  
“Oh, darling, you are…” Eames takes a deep breath. “You’re surprisingly sweet.”  
  
“Do you think I’m cute?”  
  
Eames blinks. “What?”  
  
“You asked me,” Arthur says, quickly, “I thought it was a standard question. For human conversation. In bed. At night. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, slowly reaching for Arthur, letting his palm rest on Arthur’s knee. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s a standard question. And yes, darling. I think you’re cute. But not like a dog, but rather like a very handsome man.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says.  
  
“A very, very handsome, very attractive man,” Eames says, “in my bed at the middle of the night, which is kind of messing with my head a little. But, you know. You look cute.”  
  
“Good to know,” Arthur says.  
  
“Sure,” Eames says. “Listen, you’ve got to promise me something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Eames runs his fingertips on Arthur’s calf. “That you aren’t going to leave me without saying goodbye.”  
  
“I will never leave you,” Arthur says, “I’ll be watching over you until the day you die, and then I’ll have a short vacation, and after that, I’ll get another client. Probably a baby. I don’t like babies.”  
  
“Okay. But I meant, if you decide that you don’t want to talk to me anymore. Or if you have trouble with your boss or something. You’ve got to say goodbye first. You can’t just disappear.”  
  
“I wouldn’t _disappear_. I’d be right here –“  
  
“But I wouldn’t see you,” Eames says, squeezing Arthur’s knee. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I have some mild issues with the fear of getting abandoned. I hate it when people just disappear. That’s why I try not to get attached in the first place. But if you tell anyone about this, I swear I’ll kill you.”  
  
“That won’t work out,” Arthur says.  
  
“Well, I wasn’t going to _really_ kill you,” Eames says, not looking Arthur in the eyes. “I was just trying to make a point. But can you at least leave me a note? If you fuck off without telling me.”  
  
“I won’t,” Arthur says and then takes a deep breath. Well, what’s the harm? Eames already knows about him. They’ve watched half-naked men together, Eames has taught him how to take a shower and they’ve had conversation in Eames’ bed. There aren't many scenarios in which things would get considerably worse if Arthur was obliged to say goodbye to Eames before regaining his professionalism. Which he’s going to have to do, of course. Eventually. Not yet, though. “I promise I won’t leave you without saying goodbye.”  
  
“Good,” Eames says. “Thank you. I mean, that’s very nice of you, Arthur.”  
  
“You should sleep,” Arthur says, because Eames seems a little disoriented.  
  
“Yeah. Fine. Could you stick around for a bit?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I mean, as a human.”  
  
Arthur looks at Eames. Eames chews on his lower lip, his gaze flicking in between Arthur and the wall. “I suppose so. But you aren’t going to talk to me, because you’re going to be asleep.”  
  
“Of course not,” Eames says.  
  
Thirty minutes later, Eames is talking in his sleep and Arthur’s sitting in a very comfortable armchair, thinking that maybe he was wrong. Maybe dogs _and_ Eames are cute.


	4. The Point Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur realizes he likes Eames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit slow updating this, sorry guys! I'll try to catch up :) There's at least two more chapters coming after this, maybe three!

“Arthur?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Can you tell me what happens after death?”  
  
Arthur thinks about that for a few seconds. He has his hands pushed into a bag full of potting soil and he's starting to think that maybe it would’ve been easier just to perform a tiny miracle on Eames’ half-dead cactus. After he had refused the third time, Eames asked if he could at least change the potting soil for the poor plant, and he couldn’t say no for the fourth time in the row. As it turns out, potting soil isn’t very high at his list of things he likes to touch with his human hands.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
Oh. Yes. Eames asked him a question. “No.”  
  
“You don’t _know?_ ”  
  
“I can’t tell you.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure it was on the contract I signed three and a half thousand years ago.”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Eames says, coming to the living room where Arthur and the cactus are. “You told me you don’t have hands.”  
  
“I don’t,” Arthur says, trying to pick mud from under his fingernails. The first thing at his list of things he likes to touch is still, after he’s been touching a lot of things this week, Eames’ skin. Nothing can beat it. Nothing has even come close. “We sign contracts a little differently. I really can’t tell you, Eames.”  
  
“Just give me a hint,” Eames says, sitting next to him on the floor that’s been covered in old newspapers, which is probably good, because there’s potting soil everywhere.  
  
“No,” Arthur says. “I don’t know how to get your cactus back to the pot.”  
  
“You told me you used to take care of _pine trees._ ”  
  
“That’s completely different.”  
  
“They’re much bigger than my cactus.”  
  
“I didn’t have to get them fit in the pot. I could just stick them anywhere. There was space.”  
  
“Just give it to me,” Eames says, leaning closer to Arthur apparently to take the pot and the cactus and the bag of soil. His shoulder brushes against Arthur’s. Arthur holds his breath. He’s getting used to breathing constantly but he’s _not_ getting used to Eames’ touching him. Not that Eames does that all the time. But now that Arthur’s been wearing his human form more, Eames seems to have developed a steady habit of placing a hand on Arthur’s arm, patting Arthur on the back, drawing figures on Arthur’s thigh with his fingers, and, sometimes, running his fingertips on Arthur’s throat. Arthur is certain that all of that is perfectly normal human communication. The reason why he never saw Elise running her fingers gently on another humans’ throat is that Elise barely met other humans since 1996.  
  
“Like this,” Eames says, putting the cactus to the pot. “I can’t believe you won’t tell me what happens after death. Really, it’s making me kind of nervous. I’m very angry at you, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur freezes.  
  
Eames stops putting soil to the pot and looks at him. “No, don’t… I didn’t mean it like that. It was a joke.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “It was?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m not angry. Just a little frustrated. I realize that you signed a contract, you nerd. Don’t look at me like you think I hate you.”  
  
“I’m not –“  
  
“Yeah, you are,” Eames says, raises one of his mud-covered hands, circles it behind the back of Arthur’s neck and pushes his fingers into Arthur’s hair. His fingertips feel very nice against Arthur’s scalp. Arthur’s eyelids may flicker a bit. Probably that’s a reflex. “See? I’m not angry.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Good angel,” Eames says in a very quiet voice. “Tell about the others you’ve been watching over.”  
  
“My other clients,” Arthur says. He kind of wants to close his eyes and lean towards Eames’ touch. “I can’t.”  
  
“Did you let them do this for you?”  
  
“No. Of course not. I’ve never appeared in a human form for anyone.”  
  
“Only me,” Eames says. He sounds happy about it. Good. Arthur wants him to be happy. “So, I’m the first human ever to give an angel a head massage.”  
  
“No,” Arthur says and then thinks about the head massage part. “I mean, many humans have seen an angel. It happens occasionally.”  
  
“Really? Why haven’t they said anything?”  
  
“They usually do,” Arthur says. “Other humans tend to think that they’re prophets, witches, or mentally ill, depending on the cultural context.”  
  
Eames thinks about that for a while. “Well, I wasn’t going to tell anyone. They wouldn’t believe me.”  
  
“Probably not, not in your cultural context.”  
  
“I’m kind of glad that you haven’t showed yourself to anyone else, though. I’d be jealous.”  
  
“Jealous?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, brushing his thumb on the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur can feel the touch on his _toes._ It’s very unpractical but extremely fascinating. He’s always known the boss is genius but still, it’s a miracle that the boss came up with an idea of a creature that’d be capable of a whole-body shiver when someone touches their neck. “I kind of want to keep you.”  
  
“You can keep me until the day you die,” Arthur says. “After that, you won’t need me.”  
  
Eames drops his hand from Arthur’s neck. Arthur has an urge to catch his wrist and put his hand back where it was, but the look on Eames’ eyes distracts him.  
  
“Just tell me what happens after I die,” Eames says.  
  
“I will not.”  
  
“Then at least save my cactus with your superpowers.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. Just a tiny miracle -  
  
Eames cellphone starts ringing. “Shit, that’s Cobb again,” Eames says and picks up the thing. “Hello, Cobb. Yes, thank you, it’s been raining. No, I’ve got nothing special going on. I’m just trying to save my cactus. It’s almost dead and I’m pretty emotional about it because, you know, I got it from Mom. Anyway, how are you, are you still… Of course I’m alone, who’d I be… Cobb, don’t talk to me like that. I know you mean well, but it sounds like you’re trying to hit on me and that’s just ridiculous. Why did you call?” Eames stays quiet for a moment, frowning, then says _ah_ , covers the phone with his palm and whispers to Arthur: “He wants me to take a job.”  
  
“Don’t,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames winks at him and then goes back to talking Cobb. “So, you were saying… no, I told you I’m alone, there’s no one here. I was talking to the cactus _,_ Cobb. You’re becoming paranoid at your old age. And I’m not doing another job with you until I’ve forgotten that you almost got me shot. It should take at least four months.” Eames takes a deep breath. “How much money?”  
  
_No,_ Arthur thinks. _Don’t_ -  
  
“I’ll be there,” Eames says, “just make sure no one’s going to shoot at me this time.” He hangs up and turns to Arthur. “I’m going to get shot at again.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth but can’t think about anything to say, so he disappears.  
  
Well, he doesn’t _disappear_. Eames just can’t see him. He’s right here, hovering in the corner of the living room, staring at the cactus lying on the floor and Eames who’s watching around as if he expects to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s wings. That’s ridiculous. _Eames_ is ridiculous. And now he’s going to get shot again working for that reckless idiot who, as Arthur found out from his file, has been through quite a lot recently. That often turns well-meaning and averagely clever people into idiots. But that doesn’t mean Arthur isn’t angry at Cobb for putting Eames at risk. Arthur is _furious_ with Cobb. If Arthur could, he’d have a word with Cobb about that. About Eames getting shot at. It’s Arthur’s job to keep Eames alive. It’s Arthur’s job to keep Eames from dying of gunshots at the age of 34, dying in Arthur’s arms, his eyes fixed on Arthur, his fingers squeezing Arthur’s wrist until he takes his last breathe and closes his eyes…  
  
Arthur double-checks that everything in Eames’ body is functioning as it should and that there shouldn’t be an earthquake or a nuclear disaster in the next five minutes. Then he goes home.  
  
Just five minutes. Five minutes without Eames watching him, talking to him, touching him, being a human around him. It’ll clear his head. Then he’ll remember that this is just a job. If Eames dies, then he dies. He’s going to die eventually. That’s the order of things. That’s one of the certain things in the universe, and well, there aren’t many.  
  
He stays away for four and a half minutes and then he rushes back. Eames is in the bedroom now. The cactus is still in the living room. It looks like it’s not going to live. Arthur looks at it for a second. Eames really seems to love that cactus.  
  
When Arthur goes to the bedroom, Eames is apparently removing randomly chosen clothes from his closet to his bag. He’s going to go to Rio de Janeiro to work with Cobb and Arthur can’t stop him. And it’s not like Arthur didn’t see this coming, is it? He’s well aware that the biggest design flaw in humans is their free will.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s almost midnight before Eames says anything to Arthur. It’s been a quiet evening. Eames put a record on, _IV_ by Toto, washed the dishes, vacuumed half of the flat and ignored the other half, read the newspaper from yesterday and snorted at every page, and ordered pizza but didn’t ask if Arthur wanted any. Around midnight, Eames finishes brushing his teeth, puts the toothbrush away and says to the mirror: “Look, I don’t like it when you just disappear.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t answer. Eames washes his face and then goes to the bedroom, turns off the light and sits on the edge of the bed. “But,” he says, lying down on the bed, “I guess you don’t like it when I get shot at.”  
  
Arthur stays hidden for two more seconds before he can’t stand it anymore. He appears in the corner, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Eames in a way that he hopes is appropriately disapproving. He’s aware that he put on his whole James Bond costume again, but he can’t help it. It makes him feel a little less like a guardian angel who’s emotionally involved in his client’s well-being and a little more like James Bond. James Bond wouldn’t get upset about the thought of Eames getting into trouble. “No, I don’t.”  
  
Eames pushes his elbows against the mattress and looks at Arthur. “I’m sorry about that.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Thank you.”  
  
“I’m not friends with Cobb,” Eames says in a quiet voice, “but I liked Mal. Everyone liked Mal. Mal was… she was the best. And I would hate it if losing her drove Cobb into becoming someone she’d never have wanted him to be.”  
  
Arthur sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaks.  
  
“And Cobb _is_ kind of brilliant,” Eames says. “He asks for impossible things and sometimes he gets them.”  
  
“That’s impossible.”  
  
“Try telling that Cobb.”  
  
Arthur very much would like to. He’d tell Cobb what exactly he thinks of Cobb always putting Eames in danger -  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, leaning closer to place his hand in between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “You saved my cactus. I noticed.”  
  
“Just a tiny miracle,” Arthur says. “Could be sheer luck. Good things happen sometimes.”  
  
“Usually they don’t,” Eames says. “Why did you leave? Earlier? After Cobb called me?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t lie.”  
  
“I’m not… I didn’t know what to say to you. I don’t want you to get shot at.”  
  
“Me, neither,” Eames says. “Let’s try to avoid that. You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”  
  
“I go everywhere you go.”  
  
“That’s so cheesy,” Eames says, his hand still flat against Arthur’s back, steady and reassuring and warm. “Come to bed, Arthur, and I’ll tell you about the job. Unless you know already what I do.”  
  
“Last time, you got yourself heavily sedated and unconscious in a moving car.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. But I was dreaming. This thing that we do, it’s called dreamshare. We share dreams.”  
  
Arthur stays quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”  
  
“We have technology for it. We build dreams and then go into them and find secrets that are hidden in there.”  
  
“How?” Arthur says, setting himself down on the bed next to Eames. He’s been sitting a lot in the past week, but he hasn’t been lying down. It feels weird. But Eames is there right next to him.  
  
He listens when Eames tells him about the shared dreams and how they are created and how they are used. Eventually, Eames falls asleep. Arthur makes sure Eames is properly covered with blankets and then drops the human form. He should probably learn a few things more about this dreamshare.  
  
  
**  
  
  
First, Arthur finds out how to use Eames’ laptop. Then, he realizes that a thing called Google, which the boss created to tell humans everything they need to know now that they don’t listen to him anymore, doesn’t know anything about dreamshare. He can figure out quite a lot by going through Eames’ e-mail history, though. He also figures out that there’re at least four considerable criminals who’d like to see Eames dead. Maybe he should have a talk with their angels. It barely eases his stress that for now Eames is averagely safe, snoring in his own bed where the amount of hazards is somewhat limited.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says huskily early in the morning, rolls onto his back and pries open one eye. “Arthur, where’re you?”  
  
Arthur has been hovering over his bed, maybe thinking about how he could hold Eames’ hand if he had hands himself. Now he sits on the edge of the bed, crosses his legs and reaches to brush his fingers against Eames’ bare shoulder. Eames’ skin feels warmer than it did in the evening. Interesting.  
  
“Oh, there you are,” Eames says and grabs his wrist. “Great. I hate it when I can’t see you.”  
  
“That’s unfortunate.”  
  
“Well, yeah, isn’t it. What’s the time?”  
  
“Not seven in the morning yet.”  
  
“Fuck,” Eames says, squeezing his eyes tight. His grip on Arthur’s wrist becomes firmer. “We’ve got to catch the flight in three hours.”  
  
“I did a little research on the dreamshare,” Arthur says.  
  
“Oh, shit.”  
  
“I couldn’t find anything on Google, so I read your e-mails.”  
  
Eames sits up, staring at Arthur and blinking. “Okay. Well. Just let me explain, before you decide that you don’t like me anymore –“  
  
“I’m very uncomfortable about the dead threats,” Arthur says, “but I’m going to deal with those. From now on, you should avoid making other humans want to kill you.”  
  
Eames clears his throat. “That might be difficult.”  
  
“For me.”  
  
Eames bites his lip, then draws in a deep breath. There’s something odd in the way he looks at Arthur. His eyes keep moving back and forth on Arthur’s face. “I’ll try. Arthur, you’re probably wishing you’d have an easier… client, but I need you to know that I’m not deliberately trying to get myself killed.” Eames frowns. “Or actually, I wonder sometimes… But if I _am_ , it’s not about you. I’ve had difficulties trying to figure out what to do with my life. A few of my career choices might be… questionable.”  
  
“Also, I found out that you have killed three humans.”  
  
Eames’ face goes considerably whiter. Arthur checks his blood sugar levels, but they’re fine for now. They should move on to the breakfast soon, though. “You did?” Eames says in a quiet voice, then seems to flinch. “You found out from my _e-mails?_ Holy shit, you’re good. And I’m sorry about that, I really am, I genuinely… but it was for self-defense.”  
  
“They would’ve died in approximately forty years anyway,” Arthur says. “But statistically speaking, humans who kill other humans tend to die sooner themselves. So, if you could kindly refrain from killing anyone in the future, that would be –“  
  
“Great,” Eames says, “yeah, of course. I’ll try. I wouldn’t want to piss you off.”  
  
“I don’t think I’m capable of getting _pissed off_ ,” Arthur says, although he’s not sure. Perhaps he’s going to find out. “Anyway, there’re some things about sharing dreams that I don’t understand. You should explain them to me.”  
  
“So that you can keep me safe better.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah.”  
  
“I think I should take a quick shower,” Eames says, patting Arthur on the arm, “and then we could eat breakfast and I’m going to tell you anything you want. Just… I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell any of this to… you know, your boss.”  
  
“He already knows.”  
  
“Oh.” Eames bites his lips. “Okay. Can you make coffee while I’m at the shower, darling?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says and stands up. “Be careful.”  
  
“I will,” Eames says. Arthur expects him to take off his boxers and walk to the bathroom, but he steps closer to Arthur instead, raises his hand and ruffles Arthur’s hair. Arthur jumps a little. “You worry too much, darling.”  
  
  
**  
  
This time, being on the plane is considerably less terrible than usually. Arthur hovers on Eames’ seat, pretty much at the same spot where Eames is sitting, and ignores the looks the other angels are giving him. If he wants to hover at his human’s personal space, he will, thank you very much, and he’s very good at his job, by the way. He just hopes the angels on the plane haven’t heard of the incident with the tiger. And it’s not like Eames seems unhappy about Arthur metaphorically sitting in his lap. He’s not supposed to know about it, of course, but sometimes he shifts in the way that makes Arthur wonder.  
  
After a few hours, Eames takes a nap, and Arthur monitors his well-being from close distance. When Eames wakes up, he takes his laptop and starts reading an electronic book, what an intriguing invention. Arthur reads over his shoulder. The book seems to have some appealing similarities with the James Bond movies, for example a lot of violence, guns, and handsome human men. After a minor accident with a train, a handgun and a suitcase full of money, the tone in the book changes. The change is subtle enough that it takes some time for Arthur to realize that the hero of the story, a well-clothed dark-haired man who Arthur imagines looking alike his own human form, is having sex with the villain of the story, a badly-clothed but very charming human who Arthur imagines looks a lot like Eames.  
  
Eames shifts in his seat and adjusts the front of his trousers a little, says _hmm_ and keeps on reading, and Arthur has to keep up, because he can’t exactly ask Eames to go back if he misses something. It’s good that he’s a fast reader. He tries to understand what exactly the two handsome human men are doing, whose hand is in where and at which point they stopped facing each other, but the description isn’t very detailed and Arthur’s research on this subject is somewhat lacking. Maybe he should ask Eames to choose a bit more informative book the next time.  
  
“Interesting,” Eames says under his breath.  
  
“Excuse me?” says the old woman sitting at the next seat.  
  
Eames flinches and then smiles at the woman. “Nothing. Sorry. I was… it’s an interesting article.” Arthur waits for him to keep on reading, but he doesn’t, just shifts on the seat and clears his throat once in half a minute. After a while, Arthur continues reading by himself. If Eames wants him to go back, Eames can find a way to ask him.  
  
He realizes only after twenty more pages that Eames is smiling.  
  
  
**  
  
“Oh, God,” Eames says, closing the hotel room door behind him. “I shouldn’t have said yes. I shouldn’t have fucking answered when he called. I shouldn’t have… I should’ve blocked him and then talked myself into forgetting him. I’m very good at talking myself into things, did you know? I always say that I’m never going to work with him, and then, when he calls me the next time… Arthur, are you here? Are you? I can’t believe you’d choose this goddamn day to fuck off but –“  
  
“I’m here,” Arthur says, placing his hands on Eames’ shoulders. “I didn’t go anywhere.”  
  
“I haven’t seen you in almost fifteen hours.”  
  
“That’s because we were on the plane and then at the… at the place Cobb calls an office.”  
  
“That umbrella. Did you put it in my bag?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Because you knew it was going to rain.”  
  
“I read the forecast.”  
  
“You’re an angel,” Eames says, takes a deep breath and squeezes Arthur’s arm. “Thank you. Were you there when Cobb told us about the job?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“It could work. It’s just… there’re so many details to think about, and Cobb’s not good with details, he just always improvises, and he’s good with that and so am I, but… I can’t get shot at again. My shoulder is still a mess from the last time. Maybe if they aimed at my right shoulder this time –“  
  
“No,” Arthur says, “absolutely not.”  
  
“We’re going to figure it out,” Eames says and takes a step away from him. “It’s been a long day. Are you hungry?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Let me take a quick shower and then I’ll take you out for dinner,” Eames says and then frowns. “Oh, shit. I can’t.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says slowly, “I’m not hungry. I don’t need to eat. You can just go and –“  
  
“No, of course not,” Eames says, “we’re in this together. Okay. I’ll order us something. What do you think of pizza?”  
  
“I think there’s a lot of cheese.”  
  
“Great, you’ll love it,” Eames says. He orders the food and goes to take a shower, and Arthur sits on the edge of the very large bed and finishes the book Eames was reading on the plane. The ending isn’t happy. He reads the last paragraphs three times and tries to decide why he’s having all these unpleasant feelings. It’s just fiction. These characters are fictional humans. They’d be dead in less than a hundred years anyway. He takes a few deep breaths, puts Eames’ laptop aside and goes to the bathroom.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, turning to look at him. He’s all wet and he has shampoo on his hair. “What is it?”  
  
“I didn’t like the book.”  
  
Eames blinks. “You finished it?”  
  
“They tried to shoot each other in the end, and then they just left. That’s unsatisfying.”  
  
“First,” Eames says slowly, “it’s considered very rude to tell someone about how a book ends. Secondly, you could just imagine they’d think about it for a few days and then realize they’re meant to be together, and then one of them would get a plane ticket and soon they’d be together.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Come here,” Eames says, stepping half-way out of the shower, reaching for Arthur with his hand. “Get rid of all those buttons and come here. You’ll forget about the book.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says, taking a step closer. He grabs Arthur’s wrist but gently. Arthur would only need to tug a little to free his hand. But he doesn’t, no, he lets Eames pull himself forward, until his suit is beginning to get wet. It takes so much time to undress that he thinks about making all his clothes miraculously disappear, but then Eames starts unbuttoning his shirt for him, his fingers steady and wet on Arthur’s buttons. “So, what did you think about the book?”  
  
“I just told you,” Arthur says, “the ending was oddly unsatisfying.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, pushing Arthur’s shirt from his shoulders, “no, I meant… Did you read the part where they had sex?”  
  
“Of course. It was essential for the plot.”  
  
Eames frowns. “Really?”  
  
“In that scene, they told each other things that enhanced their character development.”  
  
“Fine,” Eames says, his hands stopping on Arthur’s shoulders. “Anyway, I… Is this okay?”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“This,” Eames says, running his palms down on Arthur’s arms, “me touching you, when you aren’t wearing any clothes.”  
  
“I’m wearing trousers.”  
  
“Yes, well, you should take them off if you’re going to come to the shower. But, darling. You don’t mind that I touch you, do you?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, unzipping his trousers.  
  
Eames clears his throat. “Why?”  
  
“It feels good.” Arthur glances at Eames. Eames is staring at him. “It’s wonderful. I knew humans were a peculiar species but I’m still a little surprised.”  
  
“A peculiar…” Eames pauses and takes a deep breath. “Okay. So, I was trying to ask you, what did you think about the sex?”  
  
“The sex?”  
  
“In the book.”  
  
“I think it was very pleasant experience for the characters’ human bodies.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, looking at Arthur’s hands when he undresses his trousers and hangs them on the wall, next to the towels. “I meant, what about you?”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Did you like it?”  
  
Arthur takes off his underpants and steps to the shower cubicle. That’s why he undressed, isn’t it? The water is warm and nice against his skin, only he’s a little distracted because of the way Eames is looking at him. “I think it fit the plot.”  
  
“Yeah, but I…” Eames takes a deep breath and steps closer to Arthur, under the running water. “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes I just wonder, you know, how much of a human you have in you.”  
  
“None. I’m an angel.”  
  
“Yeah, I _know,_ but… Arthur. Can I wash your hair?”  
  
Arthur frowns. Eames chews on his lower lip, his eyes moving back and forth on Arthur’s face. “I suppose so. But it doesn’t really need washing.”  
  
“Would you like it? Would it feel good?”  
  
“Probably,” Arthur says. So far, Eames’ hands have felt good anywhere on his skin.  
  
“And you’d tell me if you didn’t want me to touch you,” Eames says, pushing his fingers into Arthur’s hair. Arthur closes his eyes. Eames’ fingertips are drawing small circles against his scalp. “Arthur, would you tell me to stop if you didn’t want me to touch you?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, eyes still closed.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Eames says, quite absurdly. Arthur can feel Eames’ breath on his throat, on the side of his face. “Arthur, this is…”  
  
“Are you getting an erection?”  
  
Eames laughs but in a rushed voice. “Well, yeah.”  
  
“I’ve told you, that’s completely normal.”  
  
“Yeah, but you’re right there.”  
  
“Maybe you enjoy touching me.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, his voice sounding a little odd, “yeah. That might be it. Thank you for enlightening me.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, taking Arthur’s face in between his palms. Arthur opens his eyes. Eames is watching him, standing wet and naked in front of him. He has an erection. “I know you’re as old as Heaven and Earth, but sometimes you’re a bit dense.”  
  
“I’m considerably younger than Heaven and Earth. Did you finish washing my hair?”  
  
“No, absolutely not,” Eames says and puts his fingers back into Arthur’s hair. Arthur takes a deep breath. “I like you.” Eames’ hands get slower in Arthur’s hair. “I like you a lot.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, when it begins to seem that Eames is waiting for him to say something.  
  
“I’m not very good at liking people,” Eames says, “I grow tired of them pretty easily. They’re fascinating at first and then pretty soon I get to know every detail about them and suddenly I’m not so interested anymore. But you’re so weird. I don’t even have a clue about what you actually look like. And you say unexpected things. And you’re so serious about everything, as if you aren’t trying to be funny at all. I’m so tired of people who’re trying to be funny.”  
  
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Arthur says.  
  
“I know, darling. And sometimes you are anyway, and I try not to laugh at you too much, because you don’t know that you’re funny and it seems rude.”  
  
“I don’t mind if you laugh at me.”  
  
“And I like it that you don’t tell me how strong I am,” Eames says, stroking Arthur’s wet hair back and forth in somewhat uncoordinated gesture, “that probably hasn’t even crossed your mind, and why would it, you’re so much stronger than me that we’re never going to have a competition about that. And I’m never going to wonder if perhaps the only reason you hang around with me is that you like it that I can throw you off your feet and hold you down in bed if you want me to. Or something like that.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “Why would I –“  
  
“It’s just something that we humans sometimes do,” Eames says, smiling a little. “You don’t need to worry about that. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Arthur, could I…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Maybe if you’re done with your shower, I could be alone for a moment.”  
  
Arthur looks at Eames. Eames looks at Arthur. He’s flushed and his hands are resting on Arthur’s shoulders, his fingers barely holding onto Arthur now. “You want to be alone.”  
  
“Just for five minutes,” Eames says in a quiet voice. “But I’d like to know that you aren’t watching. Just this once. I promise I won’t die.”  
  
“You can’t promise me that.”  
  
“I’ll try very hard not to die.”  
  
Arthur thinks about that. He could close the bathroom door and stand right behind it. If something happened to Eames, for example, if Eames slipped on the floor and fell, it would take Arthur maybe one and a half seconds to reach him. “Okay.”  
  
“Thank you,” Eames says, leans towards him, then suddenly freezes and pats him on the shoulder.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Arthur says and steps away from him.  
  
Those five minutes take quite long.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Cobb, there’s a black van parked outside the building,” Eames says, when they’ve been in Rio de Janeiro for six days and Arthur has taken eight point five showers with him. “It’s been there for two days now.”  
  
“I know,” Cobb says. He’s been looking so tired that Arthur’s almost begun to feel sorry for him. He’s clearly not sleeping, and yesterday, he cried in the bathroom for several minutes. He’s a mess and someone should help him, but his guardian angel keeps glaring at Arthur and talking about burnout and quitting his job every time Arthur asks him, if there really is nothing more about Cobb that could be done.  
  
“You know about it?” Eames asks.  
  
“It should be fine. We only need to get this job done, and it should be fine.”  
  
“This wasn’t supposed to be that kind of a job, Cobb.”  
  
Cobb sighs.  
  
“You said I wasn’t going to get shot at this time.”  
  
“It’s possible.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Cobb! And what do you think I should tell my guardian angel? That it’s _possible_ I won’t get shot at this time?”  
  
Cobb blinks at Eames. “Your –“  
  
“Never mind. So, is there any more risks you’ve neglected to inform me about? Because now would be a good time to let me know. If something turns up later, I’m going to seriously consider about returning you to your precious Los Angeles in a box.”  
  
Cobb takes a deep breath. “A few.”  
  
“ _A few?_ ”  
  
“Our client has some connections to Mexican drug cartel.” Cobb squints at the laptop on his desk. “And our mark to Columbian drug cartel. Eames, you know I’m not very good with research, but think about this, have you ever ended up dead when you’ve been working with me? No, you haven’t.”  
  
“I swear that after this job, I’ll never speak to you again,” Eames says, “unless you actually get home and want to invite me to your kids’ birthday or something, because then I’m going to come and eat the whole goddamn cake. For compensation. But for now, you’re going to tell me every little risk that you’ve overlooked.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”  
  
“Or else I’ll walk straight out of this building and you’ll be alone. Why didn’t you hire Ariadne for this job, anyway? She’s good for a newbie.”  
  
Cobb is silent for a long time. His guardian angel is filling an application for a transfer to the gardening sector. “I didn’t want her to get shot at.”  
  
“Oh, fucking hell,” Eames says, slams Cobb’s laptop shut and sits down on Cobb’s desk. “Now tell me everything.”  
  
The next fifteen minutes, Arthur watches carefully the van parked outside the building, Cobb’s angel’s level of burnout, and Eames’ blood pressure. When Cobb finally stops talking and Eames goes to the bathroom, Arthur follows him. He stays out of sight for a moment, looking at the way Eames walks a small circle, his hands trembling just a little.  
  
“Should’ve never quit smoking,” Eames mutters.  
  
“I strongly disagree,” Arthur says, frowning at him in his human form.  
  
Eames glances at him, giving him a short smile. “Thank god you’re here.”  
  
“Yes. Eames, this job is too dangerous.”   
  
Eames takes a deep breath.  
  
“You should quit. We could go back to London and play video games.”  
  
“I knew you’d get addicted,” Eames says in a quiet voice, then straightens his back and turns to Arthur. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done a dangerous job.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says, “but it wasn’t my job to keep you safe then.”  
  
“So, you’re worried that you’ll fail at your job.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “I don’t want you to die.”  
  
“Yeah, because that would be you failing at your job,” Eames says, taking a step closer to Arthur. His voice is different than it usually is, sharper somehow, and his smile doesn’t seem exactly right, either. “I’m just a client for you, right?”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it. Eames _is_ just a client for him. And he _doesn’t_ want Eames to die, because that would mean he’d failed at his job. Like when he slipped and let that tiger eat the baby. But for some reason he doesn’t want to say that to Eames.  
  
“Do you even like me?” Eames asks, barely audible.  
  
“I don’t know,” Arthur says and flinches when Eames laughs. Clearly that was a wrong answer, so he tries to think about it. He likes talking to Eames. He likes watching television with Eames. He likes eating with Eames. He likes it when Eames makes him coffee and then watches him drink it, smiling and saying nothing. He likes it when they sit on the sofa and their thighs brush. He likes it when Eames touches him, preferably without a layer of fabric in between. He likes it that Eames likes him. “I think I like you.”  
  
Eames takes a deep breath. “You do?”  
  
Maybe Eames wants evidence. “I like it when you touch me.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. “ _Oh._ That’s… I’m going to have to process that later. But Arthur, I can’t just _quit._ ”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Cobb would be screwed.”  
  
“That’s not my problem,” Arthur says, “he has his own guardian angel,” even though he _is_ feeling a bit sorry for Cobb.  
  
“There’re risks but now that I know of them, I can manage,” Eames says. “I’m not going to walk out.”  
  
“You need to.”  
  
“That’s my decision.”  
  
“But if someone shoots at you, I’m the one who’s going to try to stop the bullets.”  
  
“But you’re very good at it,” Eames says, “aren’t you? I’m not worried. You’re going to –“ Only he doesn’t have the time to finish that sentence, because the door opens.  
  
Arthur could be gone in a heartbeat. Well, he could be invisible for the human eye in a heartbeat. Cobb would think that there was something wrong with the light in the bathroom. Actually, Cobb would probably think he’d be seeing things. Maybe that would encourage Cobb to sleep more and consider therapy.  
  
Instead, Arthur just stands there, in front of Eames, in the bathroom, staring at Cobb who’s staring back at him.  
  
“Eames,” Cobb says slowly, pulling his gun and pointing it at Arthur, “who’s this?”  
  
“That’s -,” Eames pauses and clears his throat. “Put that gun away, Cobb. You’re overreacting.”  
  
“This is a high-risk job and you’ve someone in the building that I don’t know anything about,” Cobb says, his hand wavering as if he can’t decide which of them to point at with his gun, Eames or Arthur. “I knew you were pissed with me but I never thought you’d sell me out.”  
  
“I’m not selling you out, Cobb.”  
  
“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who this is,” Cobb says, nodding towards Arthur, “and then I’ll shoot him in the leg.”  
  
“He wouldn’t,” Eames says to Arthur.  
  
“I don’t mind if he does,” Arthur tells Eames. Well, it would be inconvenient, probably very painful, and it might be difficult for Eames to explain Arthur’s identity to Cobb afterwards, if the stains of blood on the floor disappeared with Arthur.  
  
“This is Arthur,” Eames says to Cobb.  
  
“Arthur,” Cobb says. “Arthur who?”  
  
Eames clears his throat. “Arthur is my boyfriend.”  
  
Cobb blinks. “What?”  
  
Arthur frowns. “What?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, takes a step towards Arthur and ruffles Arthur’s hair. Arthur wants to fix it, but it might be confusing for Cobb to see a miracle in the bright light of the dusty bathroom. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him. Well, no, I’m sorry I told him to come here, because otherwise it’d be none of your damn business who I sleep with. But, you know. I forgot my phone at the hotel this morning, so I asked him to bring it.”  
  
“Your phone?”  
  
“My personal phone.”  
  
“Really?” Cobb asks.  
  
“Yes,” Eames says and looks at Arthur. “Darling, do you have it? My phone? The reason why you’re here? Could you take it from your pocket and give it to me?”  
  
Arthur thinks about it for a few seconds, but Eames seems determinant. “Fine,” he tells Eames, pushes his hand into his pocket and makes up a cellphone, similar to the one Elise bought in 1999. He gives it to Eames. “Here you go.” Eames seems a little surprised. Maybe Arthur forgot something. Maybe it’s the word _darling._ He knows it’s a human code word for a nice person. “Here you go, darling.”  
  
Eames blinks and takes the phone, trying to put it in his pocket. It doesn’t fit. “Thank you, darling.”  
  
“You’re welcome, darling,” Arthur says.  
  
“So,” Cobb says, slowly putting the gun away, “you two are together? I didn’t think you were looking for a relationship, Eames.”  
  
“Well, I wasn’t,” Eames says, “but what can I do? Arthur just dropped from Heaven, right in front of me.”  
  
“I didn’t think you were a romantic.”  
  
“I’m not,” Eames says, “but Arthur has been such an angel.”  
  
“You aren’t in our business,” Cobb says to Arthur. “I’ve never heard of you and I know everyone. What do you do?”  
  
Arthur swallows. “I… follow humans.”  
  
“He’s a cop,” Eames says quickly. Cobb goes considerably paler. “No, no, that came out wrong. I mean, he _was_ a cop. But he grew fond of illegal things so he had to quit. Now he’s doing something that doesn’t conflict with our job at all. He is, well, he’s an investment banker.”  
  
Cobb squints at Arthur. “An investment banker? How did the two of you meet?”  
  
“Well, he’s not _just_ an investment banker,” Eames says, wrapping his hand around Arthur’s waist and pulling Arthur closer, “he’s an investment banker by day, a hitman by night. Very dangerous. You know that I like dangerous men.”  
  
“No, I don’t,” Cobb says.  
  
“Well, of course you wouldn’t know, I never talk about men with you,” Eames says and frowns, “and that wasn’t exactly true. I don’t like dangerous men. I don’t want to worry about dying at my free time. Especially not in bed. But you see, Arthur here is an exception. In so many ways.”  
  
“An exception?” Cobb says, staring at Arthur.  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says.  
  
“Actually, Arthur’s very good at risk management,” Eames says. “You should hire him as your point man.”  
  
“What?” Cobb says.  
  
“What?” Arthur says.  
  
“Yes,” Eames says, patting Arthur on the shoulder. “Actually, if you don’t, I’ll walk out of this job. Because I just won’t feel safe enough if Arthur doesn’t have my back.”  
  
“I don’t know how to be a point man,” Arthur says to Eames. His voice comes out tighter than he meant it to. “And I always stress when my job changes. You know that. I told you about the tiger –“  
  
“The tiger?” Cobb asks.  
  
“That won’t happen again, darling,” Eames says, “tigers are almost extinct anyway, as the most species on Earth are these days. And we’ll tell you what a point man does.”  
  
“Eames,” Cobb says, “I don’t have time for this.”  
  
“And I don’t have time to get shot again only because you can’t do research properly.”  
  
“I can do research,” Arthur says. He can do research especially if it contributes to Eames not getting shot.  
  
“Great,” Eames says, grins at him, and turns to Cobb. “So? You want to keep on working with me?”  
  
“Yes,” Cobb says slowly.  
  
“Good,” Eames says, “then you’re going to get Arthur a desk and a gun.”  
  
“I thought he was a hitman.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “he is, but his weapon is, well, is a sword.”  
  
“A sword?” Cobb asks.  
  
“A sword?” Arthur asks. He’s seen plenty of those things on television and in Middle Age wars. They’re heavy and quite impractical, which of course made them brilliant weapons for humans. For hundreds of years, they were making it difficult for humans to effectively kill each other.  
  
“And bombs,” Eames says. “He has unique style. Anyway, is this going to happen or are we going to get on the next plane back to London?”  
  
“Fine,” Cobb says, “I’ll get him a desk. I can’t believe you found a boyfriend and didn’t tell me.”  
  
“I can’t believe you made me work for Mexican drug cartel and didn’t tell me,” Eames says.  
  
“What does a point man do, exactly?” Arthur asks.


	5. The Fear of a Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a lot of talk about hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may notice, I changed the rating to T. But this is good news for everyone, because there's going to be a tiny sequel with M-rated sex, excuse me, love scene in it, and if some of you prefer sticking with T-rated romance in this story you can do it.
> 
> One more chapter to go after today!

“So, how was it?” Eames asks, when they go back to their hotel. It’s almost midnight, and Arthur’s been a human since midday. It’s exhausting. No wonder actual humans are so messed up after doing this for _years._  
  
“Exhausting,” he tells Eames. “My back is aching. Maybe it’s broken.”  
  
“No, you just sat in a very odd posture for the whole afternoon,” Eames says. “I wanted to tell you that you were doing it wrong, but I thought it might’ve sounded like you were an angel who was trying to play human. And Cobb was watching us.”  
  
“He was?”  
  
“Yeah. I think he’s a little jealous. Well, not exactly, he’s as straight as they come, so not very straight but I doubt he’d even realize if he fell in love with a man. But he’s always had this crazy idea that I’m a reckless criminal with a tendency to get myself into trouble, and with a minor gambling addiction, and that no sane person could fall for me. Once I dated a very handsome poet who also wrote erotic novels, and Cobb thought I had paid him to be my date.”  
  
“You dated a poet?” Arthur says. That sounds a little worrying.  
  
“Yeah, he was great,” Eames says, sitting down on the bed and pulling his shoes off. “He was very good in bed, too. Too bad you weren’t around then. You could’ve watched. I’m hungry. Pizza or Chinese?”  
  
“He was very good in bed?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“When you had sex.”  
  
“Yeah.” Eames narrows his eyes. “Don’t worry, we always used a condom.”  
  
“I wasn’t -,” Arthur pauses and takes a deep breath. Maybe that was exactly what he was worried about. What else could possibly be bothering him?  
  
“Maybe pizza,” Eames says and grabs the phone. “I’ll order something new for you, so that you can try to find out what you like.”  
  
“But I already know I like onion and blue cheese.”  
  
“I’m not going to let you get stuck with the first filling you ever tried,” Eames says.  
  
Arthur goes to the bathroom and washes his face. He listens to Eames ordering them what sounds like four pizzas, but well, he has an odd sensation in his stomach that might be hunger. Maybe he should ask Eames for a list of people Eames has dated. That might be useful. For his job. If he ever needs to track someone down, for example, in case one of Eames’ ex-boyfriends holds grudge or something. It’s impossible to think that they would ever get over for the sorrow of not being able to be with Eames anymore. An average human life spam definitely seems too short to get over someone like Eames.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, coming to the doorway. His hair is wet. He pushes it back from his face and looks at Eames, who’s taking off his socks.  
  
“My feet are tired,” Eames says and throws the socks to the corner. “Anyway, I realized you didn’t answer. I mean, you didn’t answer to my actual question. How was it, being the point man?”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah. The first day on a new job.”  
  
“I’m surprised Cobb has survived so far,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Eames says, frowning. “So, it’s that bad?”  
  
“Well, there’re plenty of details considering your current job that he has ignored, and plenty of which he is totally unaware, to my knowledge.”  
  
“Oh, shit. So, it should be a little surprising that I’m alive, too, because I’ve been working with him a lot these past few years.”  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
“And I’m so lucky that I got you to watch over me,” Eames says, clearing his throat and looking straight at Arthur. “Really, I’ve been thinking about it. What a chance, right? I’m so lucky that I got you and not some dull white-winged angel.”  
  
“We don’t have wings.”  
  
“I should thank whoever made my last guardian angel turn to the dark side.”  
  
“I think that was you.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says. “Anyway, I’m glad he did. It was a he, right? You’re all men?”  
  
“I’m not a man,” Arthur says, “I’m an angel. I don’t have a _gender._ ”  
  
Eames blinks. “But your name is Arthur.”  
  
“What’s wrong with _Arthur?”_  
  
“Nothing,” Eames says, clearing his throat, “nothing at all. But, you know. I thought you were a man. And I’m gay.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says. “What’s that got to do with me not having a gender?”  
  
Eames bites his lip, making a vague gesture in between himself and Arthur. “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just… I thought… me and you… you and me…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You’re very attractive.”  
  
“I am?”  
  
“Yes,” Eames says pointedly, “yes, you are. Are you doing it for me, then? Are you looking like that because you know I’d be into you?”  
  
“You’re into me?”  
  
“You’re missing the point. Why do you look like a very attractive man, Arthur?”  
  
“I just like James Bond,” Arthur says. “I watched a lot of those movies when Elise was sleeping. And she slept a lot. I liked the men in suits.”  
  
“And who,” Eames says, shifting on the bed, “who exactly is this Elise? You’ve mentioned her but never told me who she is. Is she your girlfriend or something? Or your non-binary angel spouse? Is that how it is? When I can’t see you and you tell me later you were watching me the whole time, you’ve actually gone to her?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, although he’s not sure to which question he’s answering. “No, absolutely not.”  
  
“Because call me crazy, but I thought we had something, you and me,” Eames says, stands up, walks to the minifridge and takes a can of beer. “I thought I was a little more than a client. I thought you wouldn’t lie to me.”  
  
“That’s not good for your liver,” Arthur says, “or your sleeping problems.”  
  
“I don’t have sleeping problems,” Eames says, but his shoulders drop a little.  
  
“Elise was my last client. Before you.”  
  
“And I can have a beer if I feel like –,“ Eames pauses and turns to Arthur. “What?”  
  
“She was my client. I never talked to her. I don’t have a non-binary angel spouse. The last time I dated someone was four hundred years ago. And it was barely _dating._ We just spent some time together and…”  
  
“Made love,” Eames says in a very quiet voice.  
  
Arthur flinches. “I wouldn’t call it that. It really wasn’t… it was…”  
  
“Just sex,” Eames says, his eyes oddly large and staring at Arthur. Arthur hopes he hasn’t caught an eye infection. “Just angel sex. So, you like sex.”  
  
“That’s a very personal question,” Arthur says, his voice coming out a bit thin.  
  
“Yes, it is,” Eames says, “but you’ve watched me wipe my ass, haven’t you, darling? _That’s_ personal.” He opens his mouth, and then there’s a knock on the door. “That must be our pizza. Don’t go anywhere.”  
  
Arthur goes to the bathroom. Eames greets someone and the said someone answers with a voice of a young human male. Maybe Eames thinks the man on the door looks more of an attractive man than Arthur does. It's certainly possible, because the man on the door is an actual man and Arthur isn’t. Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to other. The pain in his back isn’t fading at all. The boss really should’ve designed humans a little better, but well, every time someone asks, the boss swears he did his best.  
  
“Arthur?” Eames calls. The possibly attractive pizza man is gone, and Eames is holding four cardboard boxes in his arms when Arthur gets out of the bathroom. “So, here’s one with tuna, mushrooms, pineapple and rucola. Just try it. If you do, you don’t have to ever again. I think we should eat on the floor so that we won’t make a mess on our bed. How’s your back?”  
  
“Not good,” Arthur says, watching as Eames sits down on the floor without dropping even one of the pizza boxes.  
  
“Well, life is tough when you have a spine,” Eames says. “Tell me about Elise.”  
  
Arthur sits down and takes the pizza Eames is trying to give him. The taste really is quite peculiar. “What about Elise?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Eames says with a shrug and fills his mouth with pizza. “How’s Elise, these days?”  
  
“Dead.”  
  
Eames stops chewing on his pizza for a few seconds.  
  
“She died,” Arthur says, “that’s why I got a new client. You.”  
  
“You let her _die?_ ”  
  
“She was _104 years old._ I couldn’t keep her alive forever.”  
  
“You couldn’t?”  
  
“Humans are mortal,” Arthur says, “that’s just the way they are.”  
  
“So, you can’t fix that.”  
  
Arthur stares at him. “No, I can’t.”  
  
“Okay,” Eames says and licks his fingers. Maybe Arthur should try that too, to get rid of the grease and salt. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“Licking my fingers,” Arthur says, pulling his forefinger out of his mouth. There’s something odd in the way Eames is watching him. “You did it, too.”  
  
“Yeah, but…” Eames blinks. “I didn’t notice. Sorry. Carry on. So, did you like Elise?”  
  
“She was my client,” Arthur says.  
  
“You like me.”  
  
“This is different.”  
  
Eames smiles at him.  
  
“I mean, you are… we are… we are talking. And you keep touching me.”  
  
“So, Elise never touched you?”  
  
Arthur suddenly forgets how to swallow. Interesting. He didn’t know that could happen. When he finally manages to stop coughing, he realizes Eames has sprawled his legs on the floor in between them, his bare feet almost touching Arthur’s knee.  
  
“I had to ask,” Eames says, still smiling. “Not that I’m usually of a jealous type, because I’m not. It’s just that you’re the first angel that I’ve known, and it feels a bit odd to think about you touching other people.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Good, good,” Eames says. “Must be a little like how you felt when you broke my bottle of whiskey to stop me from having sex in Sydney.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat.  
  
“I don’t mind that you’re jealous of me, darling,” Eames says, “I don’t mind at all. Of course, it’s going to be a bit of a problem at some point, because I’m not planning to give up on sex for the rest of my life. But for now, I’m fine eating pizza with you and taking showers with you and having nice wanks in solitude .”  
  
“I’m glad to hear that.”  
  
“I bet you are.” Eames watches him over the slice of pizza. “Listen, darling. About what I told Cobb…”  
  
Arthur waits as Eames puts the slice of pizza into his mouth, chews on it and finally swallows it, all the tiny muscles on Eames’ throat and jaw moving. It would be fascinating to cover Eames’ skin with his hands, run his fingers on Eames’ throat and feel him swallowing.  
  
“I told Cobb you were my boyfriend,” Eames says, glancing at Arthur. Arthur blinks and returns his gaze to Eames’ eyes. “At the warehouse. It seemed like a good explanation at the time.”  
  
“It was logical,” Arthur says.  
  
“So, you don’t mind. Because I was planning to apologize, if you do.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“And now maybe Cobb’s going to stop thinking of me as a slightly ridiculous man with a gambling problem and instead as a man who gets to go out with a gorgeous and extremely skilled point man. Yourself. So, thank you for that.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“It’s not like you’re going to have to kiss me or anything,” Eames says, watching him.  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says.  
  
“Because you wouldn’t want that,” Eames says slowly.  
  
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Arthur says.  
  
“You hadn’t?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says and clears his throat. “I don’t think I had.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says, pushing his foot forward so that it brushes against Arthur’s knee. “Arthur, you can’t lie to me, right? You aren’t able? Because you’re an angel?”  
  
“No,” Arthur says, staring at Eames’ feet touching his own human knee. He’s wearing trousers. Unfortunately. The thought of Eames’ bare foot touching his bare knee – “I don’t know.”  
  
“You don’t know if you can lie?” Eames says in a quiet voice. “Have you tried?”  
  
“No, I… I don’t _know._ I guess… I guess I can leave something unsaid.”  
  
“So, you haven’t thought about kissing me.”  
  
“I’m thinking about it now,” Arthur says, truthfully.  
  
Eames licks his lips. “Because I asked.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You might like it. You like it when I touch you. You like it when I wash your hair.”  
  
“That’s very enjoyable.”  
  
“Kissing is like… it’s just different kind of touching. But not so different. Maybe it’s just a bit more intimate, because, you know. You’ve got to keep your faces so close to each other.”  
  
“I know about kissing.”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says slowly, “but you can’t know what it feels like, because you’ve never tried. As a human. With a human mouth. And, you know. It doesn’t have to be just _mouths._ I could have my hands on your neck, on your waist, in your hair. On your ass, if you wanted me to. Anywhere. I think you might –“  
  
Eames’ phone rings.  
  
“Shit,” Eames says, grabbing the phone. “I’m not going to… It’s Cobb. I’ve got to take this.”  
  
“Of course,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames stares at him for a few seconds, pushing his feet more firmly against Arthur’s knee, or maybe Arthur’s just noticing it now that Eames isn’t talking about kissing, kissing Arthur, because surely that’s what they were talking about, wasn’t it? Eames suggested he could touch Arthur’s _ass_ , which seems a bit bold, but also…  
  
He shifts a little on the floor.  
  
“Hi, Cobb,” Eames says, “I hope this is important, because me and Arthur, we’re a bit busy at –“ Eames pauses. “Okay.” He gives the phone to Arthur. “He wants to talk to you.”  
  
Arthur takes the phone.  
  
“You’ve talked at the phone before, have you?” Eames whispers.  
  
Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“But you’ve seen it in movies,” Eames says, gesturing towards the phone. “Just hold it near to your ear and talk to Cobb. He sounds worried. Maybe he’s realized how screwed he’s been without you and now he’s panicking.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “Good evening, Mr. Cobb.”  
  
It's surprisingly easy, talking at the phone. What is more difficult is concentrating on what Cobb is saying, when at the same time Eames keeps brushing his toes against Arthur’s knee.  
  
  
**  
  
“You should brush your teeth, darling.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “Why?”  
  
“Why you should brush your teeth? Darling –“  
  
“I meant, I’m going to have new teeth tomorrow.”  
  
Eames leans against the bathroom doorway, holding a toothbrush in one hand and his t-shirt in the other. “What, you aren’t going to stick around?”  
  
“Not in a human form, no.”  
  
Eames glances at the bed and then at Arthur again. “Fine. I guess I’ll just sleep alone, then.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “With whom you could sleep with?”  
  
“Indeed,” Eames says and then smiles him. It’s a tiny smile. Now that’s Arthur has been watching Eames for several weeks, he’s noticed Eames has different smiles for different situations. It’s brilliant. It’s as if Eames could express countless number of feelings using his face muscles. “Darling, come brush your teeth with me.”  
  
“I don’t see the point,” Arthur says, still watching Eames’ mouth.  
  
“It’d make me happy,” Eames says, “and I already bought you a toothbrush.”  
  
“It’d make you happy?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says and goes to the bathroom.  
  
Turns out brushing teeth is actually quite enjoyable. They stand in front of the sink, so close to each other that once in a while, their shoulders brush, and in the mirror their movements find a rhythm. They look like two human males brushing their teeth before going to sleep. Maybe this would be what life would be like, if Arthur was a human. He’d brush his teeth with Eames every night and every morning, and when they weren’t busy brushing their teeth, they’d do slightly illegal but intriguingly exciting jobs in the dreamshare.  
  
“You look sad,” Eames says, having rinsed his teeth.  
  
Arthur looks him in the eyes through the mirror. “I should go.”  
  
“Maybe take a shower with me first,” Eames says.  
  
If Arthur was a human, Eames would probably kiss him. They’d kiss in the shower, naked, and the warm water would fall on them and Eames would have his hands on Arthur’s ass. “Okay.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Hello,” Cobb says, taking a seat and dragging it at Arthur’s desk. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”  
  
“I’m still researching the connections the Mexican drug cartel has with the client you had two jobs before,” Arthur says. “And the mark’s dentist appointment isn’t yet confirmed, but I’ve hacked her secretary’s e-mail and am listening to his phone.”  
  
Cobb squints at him. “You’re weirdly efficient. But no, it wasn’t about that. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Eames.”  
  
“About Eames?” Shit. Arthur’s forgot about Eames for at least one and a half minutes. If Eames died when Arthur was thinking about secondary problems like drug cartel… But no, Eames is still alive, standing in front of the mirror, trying to copy the gestures of the mark’s lover. “What about Eames?”  
  
“I don’t know how to say this,” Cobb says, chewing on his lower lip and watching Arthur. Maybe Eames is sick. Maybe Eames’ health has been compromised and Arthur hasn’t noticed because he’s been thinking about kissing Eames in the shower. “I like you, Arthur,” Cobb says.  
  
Arthur turns his gaze back to Cobb. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Not like that,” Cobb says quickly, “I’m hundred and twenty percent straight, you know, except for that one time in high school, and the one in college, and the one in uni before I met Mal, but everyone tries out things like that, don’t they? But I was trying to say that I like you as a person.”  
  
“Oh. That’s –“ A little surprising, actually. Arthur frowns.  
  
“You’re so concentrated,” Cobb says, “and so good at your job even though you’ve been doing it just for two days, and frankly speaking, I didn’t have a clue there were so many _details_ to think about _._ And you seem like you genuinely like Eames, even though he’s… _Eames._ ”  
  
Arthur stops typing at his laptop.  
  
“This is so awkward,” Cobb says, “it’s just that I don’t really have people I care about anymore, only my kids and it’s been a long time since… but I wasn’t going to talk about that. I was going to say, I _know_ Eames doesn’t think of me as a friend, but he’s done a lot of jobs with me even though he always gets shot at, and I appreciate that more than I can say, and… I wouldn’t want him to get hurt.”  
  
“Maybe stop asking him to do jobs that get him shot at,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah,” Cobb says slowly, “no, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to get shot at this time.”  
  
“I’m making sure of it,” Arthur says.  
  
“So, you’re aware that he has a gambling problem.”  
  
Arthur glances at Eames. Eames is still watching himself in the mirror. He wouldn’t hear what Cobb and Arthur are saying, anyway, not across the room.  
  
“There was something about that in his file.”  
  
“You have a file about Eames?” Cobb laughs in a quiet voice. “I should’ve guessed. So, I suppose you know he's been to prison? In England?”  
  
Arthur blinks.  
  
“For art theft. He’s quite good at that. And he drinks more than he should, I think, mostly when he’s been alone for too long. He doesn’t have a lot of friends. Acquaintances, sure, but not friends. He was in the army, in Afghanistan, and he doesn’t talk about it, but I’ve always thought it’s got something to do with that. He’s hiding something from himself.” Cobb clears his throat. “Aren’t we all. But, yeah, once I was pretty sure he was using drugs, but turns out that was just his personality.”  
  
Eames is definitely watching them now through the mirror.  
  
“I’m worried about his heart,” Cobb says.  
  
“What’s wrong with his heart?”  
  
“Nothing yet,” Cobb says, rubbing his temple, “but, you know. He likes you. I think he’s falling in love with you. I’d hate it if you… broke his heart.”  
  
“I’m not going to break his heart,” Arthur says, his voice coming out flat.  
  
“I’m not threatening to kill you or anything, if you do,” Cobb says.  
  
“You can’t kill me,” Arthur says, throwing glances at Eames, who doesn’t look like he’s going to get his heart broken, but then again, how could Arthur tell? He doesn’t know anything about broken hearts, only that they are a considerable risk for a human’s health.  
  
When he turns back to Cobb, Cobb’s watching him with a calculating look.  
  
“I’m worried about his heart, too,” Arthur says slowly. “I want to keep it intact.”  
  
“Yeah,” Cobb says, “that’s great. I just… I felt like I had to tell you about him. So that you won’t find out those things later and…”  
  
“And what?”  
  
“And leave,” Cobb says and clears his throat.  
  
“I will never leave him,” Arthur says and points at his laptop. “Did you have something else or should I get back to work?”  
  
“Of course,” Cobb says, “no, I didn’t have anything else. Just… could you not to tell him what I said? He’s going to laugh at me if he hears that I care about him.”  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath. “I’m probably going to tell him everything you said.”  
  
Cobb seems a little surprised but nods anyway. “Well, that was honest. Okay. I’ll just…”  
  
“And I think he cares about you, too,” Arthur says, “not sexually, but as humans care about other humans that aren’t related to them and that they don’t want to have sex with. Otherwise, he wouldn’t taken all those jobs you’ve offered him. You’re very bad at doing research, Mr. Cobb.”  
  
Cobb stares at him for a few seconds, then opens his mouth, closes it again and walks away. Arthur goes back to the research.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“What did he want to talk about?” Eames asks later. They’re in their hotel room, the white glow of city lights comes through the closed curtains, and the floor is covered in empty pizza boxes. Arthur has taken his socks off and loosened his tie.  
  
“Cobb?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, sitting on the bed, his back leaned against the headboard. “In the afternoon. When he was squinting at you. He looked pretty twitchy afterwards. I bet you didn’t talk about the job.”  
  
“Maybe a little,” Arthur says. “He was worried about your heart.”  
  
Eames blinks. “My heart?”  
  
“He thought I was going to break it,” Arthur says. “But I don’t intend to do that. I don’t even know how I could.”  
  
“I think,” Eames says slowly, staring at him, “that those things usually happen by accident.”  
  
“I told him I’m never going to leave you. You’re my _client._ ” Arthur blinks. “Well, I didn’t tell him _that._ ”  
  
“You told him you’re never going to leave me? No wonder he was a little twitchy.” Eames smiles at him and takes a deep breath. “Darling, that was a romantic thing to say. Cobb doesn’t know you’re stuck with me until I die, professionally. He thinks you’re my boyfriend and nothing else.”  
  
“He told me you’ve been to prison, and in Afghanistan,” Arthur says, “and I knew all that, I just hadn’t given it much thought, because it didn’t seem like a threat to your current and future well-being.”  
  
“Did he say something about my gambling problem?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I lost a fair amount of his money once,” Eames says, shifting on the bed. “That’s why he keeps bringing it up. I paid him back, of course.”  
  
“What about Afghanistan?”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says in a soft voice, “surely you can figure that out.”  
  
“I saw a bit of the Second World War,” Arthur says, “it came pretty close to the village where Elise lived. But the last time I’ve been at the war zone was in Cuba in the early sixteenth century. My client then was a 12-year-old Taino girl. It was terrible. I don’t like to think about that. But…”  
  
“You don’t know about Afghanistan.”  
  
“I read the news.”  
  
“I’m happy you didn’t know me back then,” Eames says, taking a deep breath. “You wouldn’t have liked me. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care about anyone. Because I did. I really did. And he died.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“What usually happens in the war,” Eames says, “only we knew what were up to. We were supposed to, at least. We signed up for it. I can’t blame anyone.”  
  
“I meant –“  
  
“I loved someone and he died. I don’t think Cobb knows about that. He’s not supposed to. Don’t tell him, please?”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“Thank you. Darling –“  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Cobb’s right about me,” Eames says, “he’s right about everything. I’m bad company and I have a gambling problem and a drinking problem, probably, and maybe I’m a little suicidal because I keep working with him. And I can’t deal with feelings. I’ve got a pile of them stuck somewhere deep where I can’t see it and if I ever start dealing with it, it’s going to be the end of me.”  
  
“Maybe,” Arthur says, “you could find a good therapist and start with something.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Eames says, “I don’t have the guts. I’d be a mess and I don’t know how to deal with mess.”  
  
“I’ll be here.”  
  
“But Cobb’s right about my heart, too. You could break it. Easily. Without meaning to.”  
  
Arthur swallows. “No.”  
  
“I like you,” Eames says in a quiet voice, “a lot. And you can’t know how frightening it is. I haven’t liked anyone in almost ten years, not like this. And then you just appear out of nowhere, carry me out of a burning van in your arms. Normally when I meet someone, I make sure I don’t fall for them too much. But I couldn’t with you. I couldn’t prepare because I didn’t have a bloody idea what I was dealing with.”  
  
“But I’m not -,” Arthur clears his throat. “You aren’t going to _lose_ me. I can’t _die._ And unless I get fired –“  
  
“But you aren’t going to play a human for me for the rest of my life,” Eames says, “are you? And then I’m not going to be able to see you, or talk with you, or touch you.”  
  
“You could talk to me,” Arthur says in a very small voice.  
  
“So,” Eames says, straightening his back, “when are you planning to disappear? After we finish his job?”  
  
“Don’t.”  
  
“Or sooner?”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
“I think,” Eames says and climbs off the bed, opens the door to the balcony and hovers in the doorway, “I think I’d like to be alone for a second.”  
  
Arthur stands up as well. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast and he doesn’t know where to put his hands. “Eames, I’m not going to just _leave_ –“  
  
“For five minutes,” Eames says, “could you please leave me alone for five minutes? At least make yourself invisible and go hover in the bathroom or something so that I can imagine I’m alone.”  
  
“I don’t see how that would help.”  
  
“You know,” Eames says, fumbling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighting one, “I haven’t even slept with you, I haven’t fucking _kissed_ you, not once, and I kind of think that I’m falling in love with you anyway. How pathetic is that? And I’m not like that at all, I’m _not,_ I don’t fall for people. Ever. Not after what happened the last time. But I can’t stop thinking that if you were human, I might, I don’t know, I might want to be with you, really be with you. For a long time. Because you’re lovely. You’re weird and ridiculous and really lovely.”  
  
Arthur takes a step towards him.  
  
“Can you just -,” Eames says, takes a deep breath and points at Arthur with the cigarette, “can you just go? For a moment?”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
“Arthur. _Please._ ”  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says and waits for a few seconds, but Eames is still staring at him, still holding the cigarette in his slightly trembling hand.  
  
Arthur walks to the bathroom and then changes to himself.  
  
He doesn’t feel like himself at all.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I take it back,” Eames says the next morning, when they’re sitting in the taxi on tbe way to work.  
  
“What?” Arthur asks. Eames hasn’t said anything that didn’t concern the weather, not since last night when they talked about Eames’ heart. Actually, Eames didn’t say _anything_ , didn’t even mumble in his sleep, until in the morning Arthur couldn’t stand it and appeared fully dressed in the bathroom while Eames was taking the shower. Then Eames said _it’s going to be warm today, you should drop the waistcoat_ and turned his back to Arthur. Arthur stared at the tattoo on Eames’ left shoulder blade for a while and then took off the waistcoat.  
  
“About my heart,” Eames says now, watching through the window. “Yesterday. I take it back.”  
  
“What about your heart?” Arthur asks. He has a bad feeling. It’s very unpleasant.  
  
“I’m probably too old to get my heart broken anyway. I’m sure there’s an age limit. And besides, it’d be ridiculous for me to be afraid that, I don’t know, that _you_ might break my heart. I haven’t even _touched_ you.”  
  
“You have touched me,” Arthur says in a low voice, even though the taxi driver seems to be listening to the radio.  
  
“Yeah, you like it when I touch you,” Eames says, “so you say, but it’s not like this is _going_ anywhere, is it? So, I’d be mad to expect it to and then get disappointed and break my goddamn heart. I’m a fucking criminal, for fuck’s sake.” He glances at the taxi driver. “Metaphorically speaking. But, you know. I don’t _break my heart_ over someone who doesn’t even kiss me.”  
  
Arthur blinks. “Do you want me to kiss you?”  
  
“I want you to know that I take it back,” Eames says, “I’m not falling for you at all. We’re just friends. Or whatever this is. And we’re there.”  
  
“Where?” Arthur asks.  
  
“Here,” Eames says as the taxi pulls over and Eames pays the driver, opens the side door and steps to the pavement. _Right._ Arthur follows him to the building. Cobb’s already there, looking like he hasn’t slept at all, and he’s drinking coffee faster than should be possible for a human. Eames goes to his desk and starts doing something at his laptop, and Arthur tries to concentrate on his job as a point man or his _actual_ job at keeping Eames alive or the worried looks Cobb’s new guardian angel is giving him.  
  
But the thing is, the only thing he seems able to think about is whether Eames wants him to kiss him. Was that what Eames was saying? Did he say that he wants Arthur to kiss him? Or did he say that he doesn’t want Arthur to kiss him? He _certainly_ said something about kissing. Maybe he wants to kiss Arthur and was asking for Arthur’s approval? Or maybe he wants Arthur to ask his approval for kissing? Or maybe he’s not thinking about kissing at all? But he _mentioned_ it. And it sounded like it was important.  
  
By the time Cobb orders take-out for lunch, Arthur has managed to investigate some minor connections between the government and the drug cartel and to make himself certain that Eames was talking about _not_ kissing Arthur and that he didn’t like it. So, it seems possible that he wants Arthur to kiss him. Arthur should probably ask him. But every time he tries to get to Eames, Cobb comes to him talking about how there’s really _no need_ to worry about _all those things_ and he gets caught up explaining to Cobb that the man’s been unreasonably reckless for half a decade and also that he should sleep more. And when Cobb stops talking, Eames has disappeared to the bathroom or to the kitchen or, this time, to the balcony where he’s smoking a cigarette and looking very unhappy but steadily alive.  
  
“You might fall over,” Arthur says, stopping a few feet away from Eames and turning his back to Cobb, who’s squinting at them through the glass door.  
  
“You could catch me,” Eames says in a quiet voice.  
  
Arthur takes a glance down. “Probably not. It was easier before, when buildings were smaller.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and then clears his throat.  
  
“I can’t figure out if you want me to kiss you or not,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames stares at him, holding a burning cigarette in his hand. It starts to rain.  
  
“Did you do that?” Eames asks, putting the cigarette away.  
  
“I don’t like it when you smoke,” Arthur says.  
  
The rain stops. Eames takes a deep breath, puts his hands into his pockets and turns to Arthur. “Remember last night when I said I might be falling in love with you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m fucking embarrassed,” Eames says, “I thought about it for the whole night. I haven’t said anything like that to anyone in ten years. And I can’t believe I said that to you. You aren’t even… you can’t… you wouldn’t…”  
  
“I can’t what?”  
  
“You like my hands on your skin,” Eames says, “but then again, you say that this is the first time anyone’s ever touched you as a human, so maybe that’s why you like it. Because it’s new. And exciting. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. It doesn’t mean that you like me.”  
  
“I like you.”  
  
“I mean, that you _like_ me,” Eames says, “really like me.”  
  
“I don’t see the difference.”  
  
“I shouldn’t have said anything last night,” Eames says, “that was stupid of me. Can you forget about it?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Arthur says.  
  
Cobb knocks on the window. Eames seems a little startled. “I think we should get back.”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
“I just need you to forget that I said I’d want you to kiss me,” Eames says. “And that I think you’re going to break my heart. That’s not your problem. That’s my problem and I’m going to deal with it… badly, probably. But you don’t have to worry about that.”  
  
“You shouldn’t do anything unhealthy, though.”  
  
“I can’t promise that,” Eames says and grins, but it seems wrong somehow. Cobb is making faces at them through the glass.  
  
  
**  
  
  
When they get back to the hotel in the evening, Eames is quiet and Arthur is still thinking about kissing. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal. It’s just touching, isn’t it? And he likes touching. Actually, when Eames takes his trousers off, kicks them under the bed, then walks to the bathroom and locks the door without even looking at Arthur, Arthur wonders if it’s possible that his human skin likes touching, that it _misses_ the feeling of having Eames’ hands on it. He probably should ask the boss if that’s something that human skin is capable of.  
  
Then again, maybe he should not ask the boss about that.  
  
He takes off his trousers and then his socks as well, because it seems like something Eames would do, and then he sits on the edge of the bed waiting for Eames. Finally, Eames opens the door. Something shifts on his face when he sees Arthur. “Long day?”  
  
“Not longer than usually,” Arthur says and stands up.  
  
“You took your socks off,” Eames says, glancing at Arthur’s feet.  
  
“I’m worried about your heart,” Arthur says.  
  
Eames sighs. “I know. I _know._ I’m sorry I’ve been so… It’s been a long time since I’ve liked someone. I don’t know how to do this.”  
  
“Me, neither,” Arthur says, walking to Eames, “but I’ve seen it in the movies.”  
  
“You have?” Eames says and then frowns. “Wait, seen what?”  
  
“Just don’t move,” Arthur says and places his hands on Eames’ shoulders.  
  
“Arthur, what’re you doing?” Eames asks. His voice is softer than usually. It’s incredible. He can talk in so many different voices. And he’s so warm. And so alive. And so fragile. And so incomprehensible. And Arthur always wondered what the boss sees in humans.  
  
“I don’t know exactly,” he tells Eames.  
  
“You don’t have to.”  
  
“I want to.”  
  
“You’re just trying to fix my heart,” Eames says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s sure about it, “and I don’t think this is going to help with that.”  
  
“I’m very good at my job.”  
  
“I bet you are,” Eames says, his gaze flipping from Arthur’s eyes to his mouth and back. “But you’re also a little distracted at the moment.”  
  
“I’m going to kiss you,” Arthur says.  
  
“Yeah. I figured. Arthur –“  
  
“You should keep your mouth closed.”  
  
Eames smiles a little. “It doesn’t work like that.”  
  
“It _doesn’t?_ ”  
  
“Well, it could,” Eames says, “in the beginning. But if it goes on, the mouths probably won’t keep closed. I thought you had seen it in the movies.”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says, “but I didn’t think –“  
  
“Listen,” Eames says, raises his hands and places it on the back of Arthur’s neck. His fingers are steady and reassuring. “Don’t think about my heart.”  
  
“I can’t not think about your heart.”  
  
“Really?” Eames says, chewing on his lips. “Really, you can’t? I thought you were going to kiss me.”  
  
“I _am._ I just –“  
  
“And you took your socks off for it,” Eames says, running his fingers above Arthur’s collar, and that’s just such an illogical thing to say, and Arthur can’t figure out what to answer to that, not at all, which might be because Arthur can’t _think._ He can feel Eames’ breath on his neck, and Eames’ left hand comes to settle on Arthur’s waist, his fingertips following Arthur’s ribs, and Arthur can’t remember what he was doing, only that he was going to kiss Eames.  
  
So, he does the only thing he can think of.  
  
He leans forward and kisses Eames.


	6. The Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is trouble with hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the last chapter! Thank you so much for reading, guys, and sorry for being a bit slow with this! I'll post the tiny R-rated sequel right away as well, so you may have a little bit of ridiculous angel/human sex if you feel like it. This last chapter includes a lot of drama but then again, what can you expect when there's one stubborn human and one stubborn angel and both of them are afraid of breaking their hearts.

Kissing Eames is probably the best thing that has happened to Arthur in four thousand years. He tells this to Eames after they’ve been kissing for fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds, and Eames laughs at him and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
“What’re you doing?” Arthur asks.  
  
“What am I doing?” Eames asks, his fingertips brushing against Arthur’s chest. “I really don’t know.”  
  
“You’re undressing me.”  
  
“Apparently. Maybe I should stop.”  
  
“You don’t have to.”  
  
“Sometimes I wonder,” Eames says, pushing his hands under Arthur’s half-unbuttoned shirt, slow and careful. “We do all these things, stupid things, things that’re scary as hell, just so that we wouldn’t be so lonely. And I wonder, what if it only makes us lonelier in the end.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What if we were better off if we didn’t even try? Because it’s not like we can keep any of it in the end. Right? _Right?_ ” Eames’ hand settles in between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “I can’t believe you won’t tell me what happens after death.”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
“Alright. But Arthur, darling, aren’t you lonely? You said you haven’t dated anyone in four hundred years. You must be lonely.”  
  
“Sometimes,” Arthur says. “Not right now.”  
  
“Right,” Eames says and kisses him. “Me neither. But I think I will be. I can fucking _feel_ it. It’s like, you know, my grandmother always said she can feel it in her toes when it’s going to rain. It’s like that. I can feel that I’m going to be lonely as hell.”  
  
“You’re going to be dead in approximately fifty years.”  
  
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Eames asks and then pulls back, which wasn’t Arthur’s intention _at all._ He only tried to… he doesn’t know what he tried to do. “Fifty years is a long time, Arthur,” Eames says.  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“I’ll be old and cranky in fifty years. You wouldn’t miss me.”  
  
“Yes, I would.”  
  
“I’m going to be so angry,” Eames says, “because there’s no chance you’re going to let me take jobs which might get me shot at, and what am I going to do then? Sit on the sofa and watch James Bond movies with you?” He blinks. “Actually, that sounds kind of nice. But trust me, I’ll sneak out of the house at night and run through the streets but terribly slowly because think about the amount of old injuries I’ll have by then. And you’re going to have to follow and you’ll be goddamn hoping that there’d be a tiger that could eat me so that you would get a fresh one to look after.”  
  
“Eames,” Arthur says, only his voice comes out oddly tight and he has a very unpleasant feeling in his chest, “don’t say that. I don’t want a baby.”  
  
“My gambling problem is going to get out of hands,” Eames says, running his fingers through Arthur’s hair, “when I have nothing else to do. Think about that, darling.”  
  
“I’d rather not.”  
  
“Why’re we talking, anyway? We should be kissing.”  
  
“You started it.”  
  
“No, you started it,” Eames says. “Wait, are you talking about talking or kissing?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, leaning his back against the wall. He feels flushed and breathless and a bit unsteady on his normally perfectly capable human feet. “Does it always feel like this?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What’re we going to do?” Arthur asks and closes his eyes. The way his heart is drumming inside his head sounds so odd. It’s a wonder humans can get anything done when this thing is just _beating_ all the time. Then Eames steps closer and places his hands on Arthur’s neck, his thumbs brushing against Arthur’s throat, and Arthur’s heart speeds up. “Eames, what’re we going to do next? Are we going to have sex?”  
  
“What?” Eames says and then coughs a little. “Sex? Why would you think about having sex?”  
  
“Human sex,” Arthur says, opening his eyes. Eames is looking at him like he doesn’t know what Arthur’s talking about. “I read about it in your novel. On the flight. The one with the unsatisfying ending. The novel, I mean. Not the flight.”  
  
“Oh,” Eames says, “right. Human sex.”  
  
“I’ve read about it,” Arthur says, “only there’re some things about the process that are a bit unclear.”  
  
“You want to have sex with me,” Eames says in a thin voice.  
  
“Don’t you want to have sex with me?”  
  
“Of course I do,” Eames says, “but darling, you’re an _angel._ ”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I can’t just,” Eames says and swallows. “We can’t just… we probably shouldn’t… I haven’t even taken you on a date.”  
  
“You can take me on a date tomorrow.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah.” It’s not like things are going to be able to get much worse for Arthur anymore, professionally speaking. And also, Eames has just finished unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and is now opening the zipper of his trousers, and his thoughts are getting a little cloudy. The human body he’s wearing is just _incredible._ Almost as incredible as pine trees.  
  
“Oh,” Eames says and kisses Arthur on the throat, “well, then. I’m going to take you to dinner. We’re going to go to a posh restaurant and drink expensive wine and all that. Cobb is going to pay. Darling, I know you haven’t exactly done this before, so I’ll try to go slow.”  
  
“I can manage drinking wine,” Arthur says. For a second, he thinks he can hear something odd coming from the hallway. Like someone walking. He tries to listen, but the kisses on his throat are quite distracting. He’s going to have to tell Eames to stop for a second -  
  
“Sex,” Eames says, “I meant the sex. You’ve got to tell me if you don’t like something that I do.”  
  
“I like everything that you do,” Arthur says, including the kissing. The kissing is very nice indeed. There was something he was supposed to think about, though. “As long as you aren’t in danger.”  
  
“I’m not in danger, darling,” Eames says, his fingertips reaching under the waistband of Arthur’s boxers, and that’s when someone shoots the lock and kicks the door in. “Fucking hell,” Eames says, reaching for the gun on the side table, but there’re already three masked human males coming through the doorway. The first of them shoots Arthur in the head.  
  
  
**  
  
  
When Arthur wakes up, he’s at home. Everything is calm and quiet. There’s a note from his therapist saying it’s going to be busy at the clinic for a while, but if Arthur wants to book an appointment, there should be time for that in about ten years.  
  
“How’re you feeling?” the boss asks.  
  
Arthur wants to take a deep breath, but he can’t, because he’s not being a human right now. “I should go back.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” the boss says, giving a somewhat sad glance at the pine trees Arthur’s been keeping as a souvenir from the time before the latest ice age. “I was thinking about letting you take a few days off. A decade, maybe.”  
  
“Really,” Arthur says, “I need to go. Eames is in danger. Eames is –“  
  
The boss sighs.  
  
“Is he dead?” Arthur asks. Suddenly, he feels numb. This is far worse than the latest ice age. This is…  
  
He feels like he’s going to be lonely for a fucking lifetime. Like, maybe a few billion years or however long it’s going to take until the end of the universe.  
  
“No,” the boss says, “no, he isn’t. Statistically speaking, his chances aren’t good. But he’s a unreasonably resilient individual. I’m optimistic about him.”  
  
“Let me go back to him.”  
  
“I’m not stopping you,” the boss says, “but I’m a little worried, Arthur. Your heart –“  
  
“I don’t have a heart,” Arthur says.  
  
“Oh, Arthur,” the boss says, but that’s when Arthur leaves.  
  
  
**  
  
They have Eames in a dusty cellar with no windows, tied to a chair, and Arthur doesn’t have the patience to figure out who _they_ are, because Eames is bleeding from at least two wounds and doesn’t seem exactly conscious. There’re three guards outside the door, and in the room, Cobb is at the chair in the other corner, looking a little less prone to die in the next half an hour than Eames and a little more panicking, because he keeps saying Eames’ name in muffled voice. Cobb’s guardian angel is muttering something about the first day at the job and when Arthur tries to talk to him, the only plan he can come up with is to try to make the kidnappers’ mothers call them and tell them to come home. Arthur doesn’t have time for that, nor patience, nor self-control. The only thing he can think about is how to get Eames out of here right fucking _now._  
  
“I’m going to kill them,” Arthur tells Cobb’s guardian angel.  
  
“You can’t,” the angel says.  
  
Well, that’s true. He doesn’t have the authority.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Cobb’s angel says. “This isn’t that bad. Once, I heard about someone who let a tiger eat his client _at the first day_. Can you imagine that?”  
  
“It was an accident,” Arthur says, “and Eames isn’t going to die. Not in fifty years at least.” Then he goes to Eames, but he can’t touch Eames like this, and the wounds won’t stop bleeding no matter how many miracles he tries, and when Arthur tries to kiss Eames, just because nothing else is working, Eames takes a sharp breath.  
  
“Arthur –“  
  
“Arthur’s not here,” Cobb says in a ragged voice. “I know you love him, but you need to concentrate, Eames, we need to get out of here.”  
  
“I love him,” Eames mutters, and that’s when Arthur goes to the door and blows it up.  
  
He shouldn’t, strictly speaking. They’re supposed to be _subtle._ Blowing up concrete doors isn’t exactly subtle.  
  
But to hell with it.  
  
One of the fucking criminals outside the door is still standing. Arthur breaks his ankles for him and then wonders for a second what his therapist is going to say about that, which doesn’t make him feel better but not worse, either. And he doesn’t have time to think about that now, nor does he time to think about the fact that the criminals also have guardian angels and that Arthur’s just made their day a lot worse than it already must have been. Well, they can try to miracle the broken ankles and the pieces of concrete in between ribs nicely away. Arthur doesn’t fucking care. He’s Eames’ angel. The only thing he cares about now is getting Eames somewhere safe.  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says. He sounds slightly more conscious now. Maybe that’s because of the explosion. Arthur takes his human form and ignores the eyeroll Cobb’s angel is giving him. It’s also surprisingly easy to ignore Cobb’s questions about what’s going on and why Arthur just appeared like that. Eames is almost smiling now, the idiot, he shouldn’t be _smiling_ when he’s hurt like that, and Arthur takes him in his arms and carries him out of the room, up the stairs, out to the street, then waves at taxis and, when that doesn’t work out, steals a car.  
  
“Don’t -,” Eames says when Arthur’s ignoring two police cars and speeding up. “Worry. I –“  
  
“You aren’t going to die.”  
  
“But if –“  
  
“No,” Arthur says and takes a sharp turn to the right. They’re almost at the hospital. “Just, no. You aren’t allowed.”  
  
“You said,” Eames says, his voice barely audible, “people _die_ –“  
  
“Not today.”  
  
“I love –“  
  
“Stop,” Arthur says, “you aren’t going to tell me something like that. Not now. Not until you’re safe. I forbid it.”  
  
“But I –“  
  
“ _Fucking hell_ , Eames, I said _no._ ”  
  
Eames coughs, only it might be a laugh. “I’ve ruined you.”  
  
“Well,” Arthur says and stops the car in front of the hospital, “yes.”  
  
He carries Eames through the hospital doors and gives him to the nurses who stare at him as if they haven’t seen a human before. Then he goes around the corner and disappears.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Eames is going to live. The boss says so. Or actually, the boss tells Arthur that the wounds weren’t fatal and Eames is going to make a full recovery. Eames’ drinking habits, however, are a risk.  
  
Arthur nods and then spends ten minutes making certain that the angel who’s going to take over him knows what he’s doing. He highlights the fact that Eames is _special_ and must be taken cared of in every possible way. It’d be absolutely unforgivable, if the angel let Eames die before Eames is _at least_ a hundred and ten years old. At this point, the boss comes to check on Arthur again and Arthur leaves the rest of his threats only implied.  
  
He's going to take a vacation. That’s what he’s going to do. He’s going to have fun, and if he can’t do that, he’s going to at least relax, and if he can’t do that, he’s going to at least stop thinking about Eames all the time.  
  
He thinks about Eames all the time. But he only visits Eames once in half an hour, and briefly. Eames is recovering well enough, and Eames’ new guardian angel quickly becomes accustomated to Arthur’s visits. Sometimes they even talk a little about Eames, and Arthur has the feeling that the angel is beginning to feel sorry with him. Well, he could bet that he’s feeling more sorry for himself than anyone else is.  
  
The first week, Eames keeps calling Arthur’s name every time there’re no other humans around.  
  
“He must’ve liked you,” Eames’ new angel says to Arthur.  
  
“I love you,” Eames says to the ceiling, “I fucking love you, you piece of shit. You said you wouldn’t leave me.”  
  
“He’s probably high on the pain killers,” Arthur says and leaves, wishing he had a body containing water so that he could cry.  
  
After a week, Eames stops calling Arthur’s name. It happens suddenly, almost like Eames _decides_ he’s had enough. Before that happens, Arthur’s been thinking that anything would be better than hearing Eames calling his name, except of course not being there when Eames is calling his name. Afterwards, he thinks that maybe this is worse. He’d give up all the pine trees in the globe if he heard Eames call his name one more time.  
  
But the time goes on. Eames gets out of the hospital. Eames’ new angel begins to get tired of Arthur showing up. Arthur begins to get tired pretending he’s taking a vacation. Eames swears to Cobb that he’s never talking to Cobb again, goes back to London and lives on chocolate ice cream and whiskey for three weeks. Arthur tells the boss that he’s ready for a new human. The boss tells him he’s not ready. He takes care of the birds on the sky of Dublin for two months and keeps a metaphorical eye on Eames, who seems to now find a new human male to have sex with every other night. It’s deeply disturbing, but every time Arthur says to Eames’ angel that they should do something about that, Eames’ angel seems a little more confused. And the birds on the sky are at trouble all the time, so Arthur really is a little busy. Then, one day, he accidentally lets his birds get hit by a plane and even though it was a misty day and he really didn’t see that plane coming, his therapist makes him come to a quick session right away.  
  
He tells his therapist that the birds were going to be dead in a few years anyway.  
  
His therapist asks him why that makes him feel like they aren’t worth protecting.  
  
He tells his therapist that he just doesn’t see the point.  
  
His therapist asks him about the client he had some time ago. Eames, was it? A human male, averagely good-looking, oddly creative? How did it make Arthur feel when Eames got shot at and kidnapped and assaulted under Arthur’s watch? And why exactly did Arthur give Eames up and ask for a vacation?  
  
Arthur tells his therapist that he’s not in love with Eames. Not at all. Nothing happened in between them. The therapist looks skeptical, so Arthur tells him that he doesn’t even _like_ Eames. Eames is annoying. Eames is stubborn. Eames has tattoos that don’t even mean anything. Eames is so _warm_ all the time. Eames keeps smiling. Eames talks about feathers even though he fucking _knows_ Arthur doesn’t have fucking _feathers._  
  
The boss asks Arthur nicely enough if he might want to take care of a few mammoth skeletons in Siberia. Arthur tells the boss that he’s not been in Siberia in twenty thousand years and he’d love to. After three months, he begins to relax a little. He handled things quite well, didn’t he? He didn’t even have human sex with Eames. Maybe he fell in love with Eames a little, but then again, _love_ is such a controversial concept anyway. And he did the right thing. Definitely. There is no way he could bear another time of Eames almost dying. And if Eames actually died, that would break Arthur’s heart.  
  
And the thing is, Eames was going to die all along.  
  
After half a year, the boss comes by and tells Arthur that there has been a mistake. The mammoth skeletons don’t need anyone to watch over them after all, and Arthur could get a new client if he feels up for it. Someone alive. A reptile, perhaps.  
  
“Or Eames,” the boss adds, after a short pause.  
  
“What?” Arthur says. They’re on the Siberian tundra. It’s cold but he doesn’t feel it, because he’s an angel. But the landscape is really nice. He should’ve come here with Eames. He should’ve -  
  
He should stop thinking about Eames.  
  
“He’s been a bit out of control lately,” the boss says, sounding sad. “Honestly, he’s always had a bit of self-destructive tendency, but now it’s getting out of hand. He stays awake all night watching Gilmore Girls and only eats cereal.”  
  
“I can’t go back to him,” Arthur says.  
  
The boss nods and watches the horizon. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur says. It really is.  
  
“Too bad that in hundred years, all this is going to be lost.” The boss glances at him. “The climate change, you know.”  
  
“I –“  
  
“And Eames is going to be dead long before that,” the boss says. “It’s very sad. Do you know how many humans have lived so far? Because I’ve loved them all. I love all my creations because, you know, I’m not a modest guy and they’re _great._ When was the last time you stopped to watch the birds on the sky, Arthur? So _beautiful._ So _unique._ But humans are my favorite. They’re so _brave._ They hold onto love whenever they can even though they _know_ they’re going to lose everything in the end. It’s _crazy._ But, you know, I’ve heard them say that love is the only thing that makes life worth living.”  
  
Arthur tries to find something to say. A flock of birds is heading towards the sea.  
  
“Anyway, what would we know about that,” the boss says, “what indeed. And fifty years is a short time.”  
  
“It’s not that short,” Arthur says.  
  
“It’s only eighteen thousand two hundred and fifty days,” the boss says. “Four hundred thirty-eight thousand hours. Twenty six million –“  
  
“That’s a lot of time,” Arthur says.  
  
“I don’t think so,” the boss says, “not if you get your heart broken after that.” Then the boss seems to remember something. “But luckily you don’t have a heart, Arthur.”  
  
“I _have_ a heart,” Arthur says. “Metaphorically.”  
  
“Well, good for you,” the boss says. “I only wonder what you’re going to do with it, since it’s clear that you aren’t going to want to love anyone, for example, a human male who’s now sitting at his house in London, mixing beer with oatmeal. Which is clever, by the way. Not loving him, I mean. Not the beer with oatmeal. Because you know, if you let yourself love him, you might get hurt in approximately twenty six million two hundred eighty thousand minutes.”  
  
“Listen, I think –“  
  
“Love is so much trouble,” the boss says, “never worth it. There’re so many other things to spend your eternity with. Have you heard of this nice game humans came up with a moment ago? It’s called chess. I think you might like it.”   
  
“I think I need to go,” Arthur says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Eames is sitting in his kitchen in London, drinking beer and eating oatmeal.  
  
“Hello,” Arthur says to Eames’ new angel, who looks even more tired than the last time he visited.  
  
“I’ve tried to make him eat vegetables but it’s just not possible,” the angel says.  
  
“Could you leave us alone for a moment?” Arthur asks.  
  
The angel looks suspicious, which is perfectly understandable. Arthur is feeling a little suspicious himself. And nervous. If he had a heart, it would be beating like hell.  
  
“For how long?”  
  
“Something like fifty years,” Arthur says, “if this goes well. But first, maybe an hour.”  
  
The other angel looks at Arthur and then at Eames and then at Arthur again. Arthur tries to look like he knows what he’s doing. He’s been always good at that. But it’s difficult to concentrate when Eames is _right there_ , and it’s been _months_ since he’s touched Eames or talked to Eames. Also, it’s becoming a little difficult to remember why it was so important to stay away from Eames. It had something to do with the fact that in the end, Arthur’s going to be very lonely. What is unclear is why he thought it was necessary to be lonely _now_ , when he could be with Eames.  
  
If Eames still wants him.  
  
“He’s not that likable,” Eames’ new angel says, pointing at Eames, who yawns, his mouth full of oatmeal. Eames’ t-shirt is inside out, his hair looks like nothing has touched it in days and he’s only wearing one sock.  
  
“You don’t know him,” Arthur says.  
  
“I’ve watched him for months.”  
  
“You need to talk to him,” Arthur says. “I mean, _you_ don’t need to talk to him. It’s better if you don’t. Because I can take care of him from now on.”  
  
“I’m going to have to ask the boss about that,” the other angel says. However, he doesn’t seem properly concerned about the aspect that he might have to leave Eames. That’s disturbing but maybe for the best, all things considered. Arthur definitely isn’t going to share.  
  
_If_ Eames still wants him.  
  
_Fucking hell_ , as Eames would say. Arthur really needs to get this done. “Can you just give me an hour?”  
  
“Fine,” the other angel says and disappears. Suddenly, everything seems very quiet. Arthur takes a deep metaphorical breath and then another, but all that he can do is to go over to Eames and hover there. He should put on his human form. He should talk to Eames. He should say… but he doesn’t really know what to say. Probably he should apologize. And then, if that didn’t work, he could apologize again.  
  
He tries to touch the back of Eames’ neck, but of course he keeps slipping through Eames, and the warmth of Eames’ skin is distant and a little unreal. At least Eames hasn’t got shot since Arthur left. Eames seems tired and unhappy but otherwise perfectly fine which, to be honest, it’s quite good for a human.  
  
Maybe Arthur’s making a mistake.  
  
Maybe he was right all along. Eames’ new guardian angel seems to have been able to keep Eames from getting shot far more efficiently than Arthur did. And didn’t Eames say he’d be lonelier in the end, right when he was kissing Arthur? Maybe Arthur should stay for an hour, watch Eames finish his beer and oatmeal, memorize everything about him and then leave. It would be for the best.  
  
Eames drops the spoon and it clatters against the plate. “Arthur?”  
  
Arthur stays still. He should leave. He should -  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and stands up, looking around, “I fucking swear that if you’re here and not talking to me, I will fucking end you, I will… I won’t probably be able to do anything about, but I’m going to try, I’m going to cut my palm like I did in Sydney, I’m going to… I was going to do it already, but all this hustle with getting kidnapped wore me down, and I haven’t been sleeping properly, and it’s been… and I almost got hit by a car a week ago and you didn’t do _anything_ –“  
  
“What?” Arthur says, putting his human form on and taking a step towards Eames. “You got hit by a car?”  
  
Eames freezes.  
  
“How did it happen? Did you use the crosswalk? Are you alright? Are you –“  
  
“You left me,” Eames says. His voice is thin and blank.  
  
“No,” Arthur says and takes a deep breath. “Yes. I’m so sorry. But you weren’t supposed to get hit by a car –“  
  
“I _almost_ got hit by a car,” Eames says. “It missed. You promised you wouldn’t leave me without saying goodbye.”  
  
Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it again.  
  
“Wait,” Eames says, “this isn’t the goodbye, is it? Fucking _hell_ , this is the goodbye, and I slept three hours last night, and I haven’t showered in days, and I don’t have anything stronger than beer in the house and I don’t know how I can bear –“  
  
“This isn’t the goodbye,” Arthur says. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast. His hands are shaking. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, and his collar is too tight. “Unless you want it to be.”  
  
“You didn’t know I almost got hit by a car,” Eames says slowly, taking a step towards Arthur. Arthur takes a step back. “So, you weren’t here. You fucking left me for _real._ ”  
  
“I couldn’t handle it.”  
  
“Couldn’t handle what? You’ve been at the same job for _thousands of years._ ”  
  
“You almost died. You might’ve died. I couldn’t –“  
  
“How do you think I felt,” Eames says, pushing his hands into his pockets, his voice now light but his eyes fixed on Arthur’s, “when they shot you at that hotel room? I _knew_ you weren’t supposed to be able to die. But they shot you and I had to see it, and for a second I thought you had fooled me, I had been this goddamn fool, you told me you were an angel and I _believed_ that, and then you just got shot in the head and died like you were like anyone else and I had thought –“  
  
“I’m sorry. It was… I lost conscience. My human body couldn’t deal with getting shot, and the boss –“  
  
“And don’t talk to me about your boss,” Eames says, “I don’t want to hear it. You just fucking _took off._ ”  
  
“I came back. I got you to the hospital –“  
  
“Yeah,” Eames says, “yeah, I know. Thank you for that. And then you left. And I thought you were here, just invisible, and I kept calling your name and you never answered, and I couldn’t _feel_ you anymore, it was like I was… alone. Really alone. So I stopped calling you.”  
  
“Eames –“  
  
“They got me a new guardian angel, didn’t they?” Eames says, walking to Arthur, and Arthur backs away from him until he has his back against the wall. Eames stops impossibly close to him. “Where’s he now? Is he watching us?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So,” Eames says and places his left hand against the wall next to Arthur’s face, “you say you’re sorry.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You came here to say that.”  
  
“I came here to… I came to say that I want to be with you for fifty years.”  
  
Eames laughs in a breathless voice. “Oh? You’re going to be with me for fifty years? Just like you were going to say goodbye if you ever chose to fuck off?”  
  
“I want to be in love with you,” Arthur says, “I _am_ in love with you. And it’s terrifying, you’re going to die so _soon_ and I don’t know how I can ever deal with it, it’s probably going to take a million years to get over you, and my therapist is going to be so frustrated, but I want to be with you as long as I can. I want those twenty six million two hundred eighty thousand minutes.”  
  
Eames flinches. “You want to be with me for twenty six million…”  
  
“And two hundred and eighty thousand minutes. Approximately.”  
  
“That’s –,“ Eames pauses and takes a deep breath. “That’s oddly specific.”  
  
“And I’m so sorry that I left,” Arthur says, “I realized that I’m going to get so hurt and so lonely in the end and I just couldn’t deal with it, it was terrifying, it _is_ terrifying. But I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry. You can punch me if you want.”  
  
Eames blinks. He leans a little closer to Arthur. “Why would I want to punch you?”  
  
“In the movies –“  
  
“We’re going to have to watch better movies.”  
  
“The pain is going to feel real,” Arthur says, “like when I got shot, only that happened so quickly that I didn’t really have time to actually experience it. But it’s going to hurt if you punch me in the face. And I can just heal my bone structure later, so it’s perfect.”  
  
“Arthur,” Eames says and takes a deep breath, “I don’t want to punch you.”  
  
“You don’t?”  
  
“I kind of want to hold you by your throat and rattle,” Eames says in a steady voice, “but I’m a grown man. I know that I don’t have to actually do everything I fantasize about. And there’re some other things that I’d like to do to you as well.”  
  
“There is?” Arthur says and then flinches when Eames puts his hands into Arthur’s hair, rubbing his fingertips against Arthur’s scalp. “Maybe I should tell you that I don’t exactly like blood –“  
  
“You’re a goddamn idiot for an angel,” Eames says, his thumb brushing against Arthur’s chin. “If you all are this dense, I probably should stop wondering why the world is such a mess. I don’t want to _hurt_ you.”  
  
Arthur clears his throat. “You don’t?”  
  
“No. I kind of want to undress you and then wrap you in a blanket and take you to bed and keep you there.”  
  
“Okay,” Arthur says, nodding. “That sounds fine. You can keep me there. Eames, I’m so sorry I left you like that, and I promise that I –“  
  
“Don’t. You broke one promise already. You’ve got to earn the right to make promises to me.”  
  
“But I –“  
  
“When I get tired of keeping you in bed,” Eames says, “I’m going to bring you to the sofa, still wrapped in the blanket so that I can imagine you aren’t going to disappear, and I’m going to have you lie in my lap and watch movies in which everyone is gentle and loving and there’s no violence and everything ends with a kiss. And we’re going to eat ice cream and drink coffee and once in a while I’m probably going to panic a little and you’re going to apologize for me again and make me believe you’re real.”  
  
“I am real.”  
  
“Actually, I can’t carry you,” Eames says. “My shoulder’s still a little useless.”  
  
“It’s alright. I can carry you.”  
  
“Great,” Eames says and leans closer until Arthur can feel Eames’ breath on his face. Eames smells of garlic and old beer. It’s terrible. Arthur carefully wraps his fingers around the front of Eames’ t-shirt, pulls him closer and kisses him on the mouth.  
  
It’s perfect.  
  
“Darling,” Eames says, “I just remembered that I wasn’t finished with drinking the beer.”  
  
“Yes, you were,” Arthur says and carries Eames to the bedroom.


End file.
